^Tiir* 



O.J. STEVENSON 




Class 


' r '} 1 


Rnnk 


r k./ • 'v 


Copyright})!, 

COPYRIGH 




T DEPOSIT. 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 




Helping Grandfather 



COUNTRY LIFE 
READER 



ofjVs 



BY 



STEVENSON, M.A., D.P.ED. 

ASSISTANT MASTER, NORMAL SCHOOL, TORONTO 



ILLUSTRATED 



^--^ 



CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON 






Copyright, 1916, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



JUL 28-191? 




GI.A4;j7030 



PREFACE 

One of the questions to which educationists of the 
present day are giving much attention is the problem of 
how to make farm life attractive to boys and girls. To 
succeed in doing this it is necessary not only to create an 
interest in the work of the farm itself, but also to lead 
young people to see the value of training and preparation 
for farming as a profession. In the selection of material 
for a Country Life Reader the editor has tried to keep 
in view both these needs. One of the first steps toward 
creating an interest in farm life is the teaching of ele- 
mentary agriculture. But the science of agriculture is 
an abstract study requiring a greater maturity of mind 
than most children in the elementary schools possess; 
and, manifestly, if it is to be taught at all, it must be 
presented in simple form. Accordingly, in this Reader the 
editor has attempted to deal only with elementary prin- 
ciples of agriculture; and, wherever possible, these prin- 
ciples have been embodied in the form of a story. And 
furthermore, as this is a Reader, and not a scientific text- 
book in agriculture, no attempt has been made to give 
detailed information on any subject. The object of the 
lessons contained in the Reader is to stimulate the in- 
terest of the pupil so that he may be led to observe and 
study for himself. 



iv PREFACE 

In addition to the treatment of purely agricultural sub- 
jects, passages have been included in the Reader which 
are intended to direct the attention of the pupil to ob- 
jects of interest and sources of pleasure in country life, 
and to lead him to appreciate the dignity of labor on 
the farm. 



Thanks are due to both authors and publishers for 
permission to use the following selections : 
' "A Bird's Elegy" by Frank Dempster Sherman, '^Far- 
mer John" and *^An Evening on the Farm" by John 
T. Trowbridge, ''The Song of Milo, the Farm-Hand" 
by E. G. Stedman, ''A Midsummer Song" by Richard 
Watson Gilder, The Houghton Mifllin Gompany; ''The 
Farmer and the Millionaire" from "Adventures in Gon- 
tentment" and ''Paying My Way" from "The Friendly 
Road" by David Grayson, and "Glean Home Milk" from 
"Outdoor Work" by Mary Rogers Miller, Messrs. 
Doubleday, Page & Gompany; "The Planting of the 
Apple Tree" and " The Prairies " by WiHiam Gullen Bryant 
and "What Do We Plant When We Plant the Tree?" 
by Henry Abbey, Messrs. D. Apple ton & Gompany; "The 
Scythe Song" by Andrew Lang, Messrs. Longmans, Green 
& Gompany; "The Gountry Faith" by Norman Gale, 
Messrs. Dufheld & Gompany; "Planting Time" by L. H. 
Bailey, The Outlook Gompany; "The Poor Man's Farm" 
by David Buffum, The Atlantic Monthly; "The Legend of 
the Dandelion" from "For the Ghildren's Hour" by Garo- 
lyn S. Bailey, The Milton Bradley Gompany; " The Red- 
iwing" by Bliss Garman, Messrs. L. G. Page & Gompany; 
"Maple-Sugaring" by E. P. Powell and "A Day on the 



PREFACE V 

Farm" by Urban Lavery, The Independent; ''The Apple 
Harvest" and ''In the Plum Yard" by E. P. Powell, Out- 
ing Publishing Company; "A Flower Lover's Creed" by 
Walter A. Dyer and "The Country Boy" by Vivian 
Burnett, The Craftsman; "Indian Summer" by Wilfred 
Campbell, Wilham Briggs; "A Visit to the Farm" from 
''Glengarry School Days" and "The Turnip-Hoeing 
Match" from "Corporal Cameron" by Ralph Connor, 
the Westminster Publishing Company; "The Boy Who 
Made the Reaper " by John Y. Beaty, Farm and Fireside; 
''Apple Time" by Arthur S. Phelps; "Wheat, Flour, 
and Bread" by R. Harcourt, The Ontario Department 
of Agriculture; "The Country Boy's Possessions" from 
"The Hoosier Folk-Child" by James Whitcomb Riley, 
The Bobbs-Merrill Company; "In Pioneer Days" by Can- 
niff Haight, The Hunter, Rose Company; "The Country 
Boy's Creed" by Edwin Osgood Grover; "Harvest Time" 
by E. Pauline Johnson, The Musson Book Company; 
"Getting in the Hay" by Carl Werner, Everybody's Maga- 
zine; "A Colony of Honey-Bees" by E. R. Root, The 
University of Ohio Agricultural College. 

"Morning in the Northwest" by Arthur Stringer and 
"September" by Helen Hunt Jackson are published by 
special arrangement with Messrs. Little, Brown & Com- 
pany. 

The author also wishes to thank the Westminster Pub- 
lishing Company for permission to reprint the following 
articles of his: "A Raccoon Hunt," "Bubo Virginianus— 
the Story of a Great Horned Owl" and "Tommy, the 
Story of a Woodchuck"; and also the Presbyterian Pub- 



vi PREFACE 

lications for permission to reprint "The Trees on the 
Farm," ''The Early Spring Wild Flowers," ''Birds of 
the Farm," "Welcome and Unwelcome Visitors," "Among 
the Evergreens" and "The Roadside in July," contributed 
to them by the author at various times. 

Thanks are also due to Mr. R. S. Cassels, Toronto, 
for some of the photographs of wild flowers which appear 
in the Reader, to the Eastman Kodak Company for the 
photographs which appear on pages 310 and 413, and to 
the Ladies' Home Journal for the illustrations which ap- 
pear on pages 310-314. 



CONTENTS 

PART I— AUTUMN 



PAGE 



The Country Boy's Possessions James Whitcomb Riley . . 2 

The Wonderful World . . . W. B. Rands 3 

Grandfather's Farm 4 

Farmer John John T. Trowbridge ... 8 

The Smallest Plants on the 

Farm 11 

The Animal Tent 14 

The Country Boy's Creed . Edwin Osgood Grover . . 19 

September . . . . . . Hele^i Hunt Jackson ... 20 

The Soil 21 

Seed-Time and Harvest . . Henry Wadsworth Longfel- 
low {adapted) .... 25 
The Spring Valley Corn Club 

{to be continued) 30 

Pocket-Money M. B. Stevenson .... 33 

Thanksgiving Song 37 

A Raccoon Hunt 38 

The Story of Cotton 42 

How Plants Are Fed 45 

Indian Summer .... Wilfred Campbell ... 48 

The Campaign {to be con- 
tinued) 49 

Homesick Alice Cain 54 



viii CONTENTS 

WINTER 

PAGE 

Back to the Soil 56 

Jack Frost Hannah F. Gould ... 57 

Keeping Up the Soil 59 

The Spring Valley Corn Club 

(continued) 62 

The Trees on the Farm 65 

The Snow-Storm .... John Greenleaf Whittier . . 73 

A Visit to the Farm . . . Ralph Connor .... 78 

A Barn-Yard Meeting 90 

The Horse's Prayer 95 

In Pioneer Days .... Cannif Haight {adapted) . 97 

The Campaign {continued) 102 

SPRING 

A Song of Spring .... Psalm 104 106 

The Song-Sparrow .... Henry van Dyke . . . . 107 

A Wet Field no 

The Early Spring Wild Flowers 112 

The Legend of the Dandelion . Carolyn S. Bailey . . . 118 

Preparing the Seed-Bed 120 

The Sower St. Matthew XIII . . . 123 

The Spring Valley Corn Club 

{concluded) 124 

The Apple Tree 128 

The Planting of the Apple Tree William Cullen Bryant . . 132 

The Campaign {concluded) 134 

The Redwing Bliss Carman 139 



CONTENTS ix 

PAGE 

Birds of the Farm: Orchard 

and Garden 140 

The Farmer's Friends , . , Henry Wadsworth Longfel- 
low 143 

Nature's Song Madison Cawein .... 144 

Tom's Bicycle 145 

Tommy — the Story of a Wood- 
chuck 151 

''What Do We Plant When 

We Plant a Tree? " . . Henry Abbey 160 

SUMMER 

A Song of Wheat 162 

Round and Round the Farm 163 

Breaking in the Colt . . . M. B. Stevenson . . . . 165 

Scythe Song Andrew Lang . . . . . 168 

The Cotton-Plant 169 

The Turnip-Hoeing Match . Ralph Connor .... 174 

A Midsummer Song . . . Richard Watson Gilder . . 185 

A Day on the Farm . . . Urban Lavery . . . . 187 

Evening at the Farm . . . John T. Trowbridge . . . 194 

Clean Home Milk .... Mary Rogers Miller . . . 197 

In the Plum Yard . . . . E. P. Powell 200 

Mine Host Thomas Westwood . . . 202 

A Boy's Song James Hogg 203 

Ceres and Proserpina 205 

PART II— AUTUMN 

The Country Boy's Inheritance Charles Lounsberry . . . 210 

I'd Like to Go - . . . . Eugene Field 211 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



The Country Boy .... Vivian Burnett . . . . 212 

Add Soils 214 

A Field of Mustard 216 

Harvest Song Richard Dehmel {trans., 

Jethro Bithell) . . . . 222 

The Boy Who Made the Reaper John F. Beaty .... 223 

The Farmer's Creed . . . Frank I. Mann .... 227 

The Corn Song John Greenleaf Whittier . . 228 

An Acre of Wheat 229 

The Song of Milo, the Farm- 

Hand E. C. Stedman .... 234 

The Apple Harvest . . . E. P. Powell 235 

Apple Time Arthur L. Phelps . . . 238 

Threshing M. B. Stevenson .... 239 

The Plough Will Ogilvie 243 

The Grain Robbers . . . M. B. Stevenson .... 246 

Autumn Edmund Spenser .... 248 

The Wanderers 249 

A Thanksgiving .... Robert Herrick .... 253 

Making Over the Cotton Farm 254 

A Better House {to he con- 
tinued) 258 

WINTER 

The Farm Creed .... Henry Ward Beecher . . 264 

The Farmer and the Million- 
aire David Grayson {adapted) . 265 

A Field of Rice 268 

Out in the Fields -. . 271 



CONTENTS xi 



PAGE 



Two Pictures Annie Douglas Robinson . 272 

Bubo Virginianus — the Story 

of a Great Horned Owl 273 

Peter Vale's Skates 285 

Making the Dairy-Farm Pay 289 

The Promise of Bread 295 

Wheat, Flour, and Bread . . R. Earcourt {adapted) . . 297 

Among the Evergreens 303 

A Better House (concluded) . M. B. Stevenson .... 308 

The Awakening of Spring . Alfred, Lord Tennyson . . 316 

SPRING 

The First Garden .... Genesis 318 

A Flower Lover's Creed . . Walter A. Dyer {adapted) . 319 

A Good Start 320 

The Gardener's Right-Hand 

Man M. B. Stevenson . . . . 322 

Maple-Sugaring . . . . E. P. Powell 325 

The Ploughman .... Oliver Wendell Holmes . . 334 

Ploughing 336 

Birds of the Farm: The Fields 339 

Planting Time L. H. Bailey . . . . . 344 

Morning in the Northwest . Arthur Stringer .... 346 

Clover and Timothy 348 

A Song of Clover .... Saxe Holm 350 

Paying My Way .... David Grayson . . . . 352 

Contentment 358 

Welcome and Unwelcome Vis- 
itors 359 

The Tobacco-Plant 367 



Xll 



CONTENTS 



SUMMER 



The Country Faith . . 

The Prairies 

Alfalfa— ''The Best Fodder 

A Colony of Honey-Bees 

The Song of the Bee . 

Getting in the Hay 

Harvest Time . 

The Old Pasture-Field 

A Bird's Elegy . 

The Poor Man's Farm 

Nature and the Child . 

The Roadside in July . 

Consider the Lilies 

The Office or the Farm 

Good Night . . . 



Norman Gale . 
William Cullen Bryant 



E. R. Root {adapted) 
Marian Douglas . . 
Carl Werner . 
E. Pauline Johnson . 



Frank Dempster Sherman 

David Bufum 

John Lancaster Spalding 



Christina Rossetti 
M. B. Stevenson . 
Victor Hugo . 



PAGE 

373 
376 
379 
385 
386 

395 
396 
402 
403 
406 
407 
412 

413 
418 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



PART I 
AUTUMN 




THE COUNTRY BOY'S POSSESSIONS 

He owns the bird-songs of the hills, — 

The laughter of the April rills; 

And his are all the diamonds set 

In Morning's dewy coronet, — 

And his the Dusk's first minted stars 

That twinkle through the pasture-bars, 

And litter all the skies at night 

With glittering scraps of silver light; — ■ 

The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim. 

In beaten gold, belongs to him. 

James Whitcomb RileV. 



p' 




Cfet^-^^<3-C?^^^^-^^**^S>^^.^^^^ 



THE WONDERFUL WORLD 

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, 
With the wonderful water round you curled, 
And the wonderful grass upx)n your breast — 
World, you are beautifully drest. 

The wonderful air is over me. 
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree; 
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills. 
And talks to itself on the top of the hills. 

You, friendly Earth ! how far do you go. 

With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that 

flow. 
With cities and gardens, and chffs and isles. 
And people upon you for thousands of miles ? 

Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, 

I tremble to think of you, World, at all; 

And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, 

A whisper within me seemed to say — 

''You are more than the Earth, though you are such 

a dot; 
You can love and think, and the Earth can not !" 

W. B. Rands. 




There was nothing on it but a small log house. 



GRANDFATHER'S FARM 



When grandfather was alive he was very proud of his 
farm. When he first bought the place there was nothing 
on it but a small log house and a tumble-down barn. The 
fields were divided off by stone walls or by ''snake" fences. 
The land was not drained, and the whole place was over- 
run with weeds. But grandfather was a young man 
then, and was not afraid of hard work. The farm was 
cheap, and he knew that if he were to set to work to make 
it over, it would increase very much in value and would 
more than repay him for his labor. 

Grandfather did not believe much in luck, and he knew 
that hard work in itself would not accomplish much un- 
less it was properly planned. Indeed, one of the chief 



GRANDFATHER'S FARM 5 

reasons why he got along so well was that before under- 
taking anything new he always carefully counted the 
cost. 

In those days farmers had to endure many more hard- 
ships than they do now, and grandfather and grandmother 
certainly had their own share. They could not think of 
a new barn until they had better crops to pay for it, and 
a new house was less important than a new barn. 

The first thing to consider was how to improve the 
crops, and that meant at least three things. First of all, 
the soil had to be enriched, then it had to be drained, 
and at the same time it had to be cleared of weeds. All 
these things took time and labor and a great deal of 
patience. Then, when the soil itself was getting into 
better shape, grandfather began to make other improve- 
ments. His farm contained one hundred acres, and at 
first he could not afford to keep a hired man. But there 
are many things that one man working alone cannot do, 
and grandfather decided that it would pay him better to 
have a httle more land and keep a hired man to help. 
It happened that the fifty-acre farm across the road from 
his own was for sale, and he decided to buy it. 

Now that he had a larger farm and a man to help him, 
he was able to plan his work better, and he began to make 
some important changes in the lay-out of the farm. Among 
the first things that he had to consider were the size and 
shape of the different fields and the improvements in the 
fences. Instead of having ten or twelve fields of different 
sizes and shapes, he made up his mind to divide the farm 
up into six divisions of about twenty acres each, reserving 
twenty-five acres for woods and pasture, and five for the 



6 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

house, barn, orchard, garden, and lanes. He had made 
up his mind to replace the old stone and stump fences with 
neat wire fencing, and he knew that, the larger the fields, 
the less the fencing would cost. The shape of the fields 
was not quite so easy to decide, for several things had to 
be considered — the nearness to the barn, the kind of soil, 
and the number of turns required in going up and down 
the field. He had decided to build his new house and 
barn next to the main road in the centre of his farm, and 
he found now that if he made his fields oblong — about 
twice as long as wide, he could reach them easily from 
the barn, and besides they could be worked with less 
labor than fields that were more nearly square. 

It was a good deal of work to take out the stump and 
stone fences, but the farm was improved in every way by 
the change, and out of these stone fences he obtained more 
than enough stone for the foundation of the barn. 

I shall not attempt to describe the new stable barn. 
It was not possible in those days to have cement floors, 
water-pipes, etc., but grandfather knew at least that the 
stables should be roomy and provided with plenty of light 
and air, and should be kept very clean; and he made the 
best provision possible for these things. 

The house, when it was built, was not pretentious, but 
it was substantial and comfortable. It had a good kitchen 
and living-room, a fine cellar and storeroom, and clean, 
airy bed-rooms; and it had a good orchard and garden be- 
hind it, and a pretty bit of lawn in front. 

My brother Jim works the farm now, and of course a 
good many changes have taken place since grandfather's 
time. Jim and his wife do not have to work so hard, and 



GRANDFATHER'S FARM 7 

they have a much easier hfe in every way than grand- 
father and grandmother — but I am not sure, after all, 
that they really enjoy life much better than grandfather 
and grandmother did when they lived in the little log 
house and planned the farm. 



If you have no money at all you must fight it out some- 
how, whether in country or in town. But if you have a 
little — just a very little — you can make it amount to some- 
thing in the country. . . . And I for one prefer the farm. 
To stand on your own hilltop, looking across your own 
orchard and meadow, with your own grain greening in 
the July sun, with your own cattle standing knee-deep in 
your own brook — that is the simple life that satisfies. . . . 
And when winter comes and the stubble-fields lie sleeping 
beneath their white mantle there is time for books and 
talk and dear old friends. . . . Time and room to think, 
to enjoy, to live. Don't you hunger and thirst for it? 

Walter A. Dyer. 



FARMER JOHN 

Home from his journey, Farmer John 
Arrived this morning, safe and sound. 

His black coat off, and his old clothes on, 

''Now I'm myself !" says Farmer John; 
And he thinks: ''I'll look around." 

Up leaps the dog: " Get down, you pup ! 

Are you so glad you would eat me up?" 

The old cow lows at the gate to greet him; 

The horses prick up their ears to meet him: 
"Well, well, old Bay! 
Ha, ha, old Gray ! 

Do you get good feed when I am away? 

"You haven't a rib !" says Farmer John; 

"The cattle are looking round and sleek; 
The colt is going to be a roan. 
And a beauty too : how he has grown ! 

We'll wean the calf next week." 
Says Farmer John : "When I've been off, 
To call you again about the trough, 
And watch you, and pet you, while you drink, 
Is a greater comfort than you can think !" 
And he pats old Bay, 
And he slaps old Gray; 
"Ah, this is the comfort of going away !"' 

.8 



FARMER JOHN 

*^For, after all," says Farmer John, 

*'The best of a journey is getting home. 
I've seen great sights; but would I give 
This spot, and the peaceful hfe I hve, 

For all their Paris and Rome ? 
These hills for the city's stifled air, 
And big hotels all bustle and glare. 
Land all houses, and roads all stones, 
That deafen your ears and batter your bones? 
Would you, old Bay? 
Would you, old Gray? 
That's what one gets by going away ! 

"There Money is king," says Farmer John; 

''And Fashion is queen; and it's mighty queer 
To see how sometimes, while the man 
Is raking and scraping all he can, 

The wife spends, every year, 
Enough, you would think, for a score of wives. 
To keep them in luxury all their Hves ! 
The town is a perfect Babylon 
To a quiet chap," says Farmer John. 
''You see, old Bay — 
You see, old Gray — 
I'm wiser than when I went away. 

"I've found out this," says Farmer John, 
"That happiness is not bought and sold. 
And clutched in a hfe of waste and hurry, 
In nights of pleasure and days of worry; 
And wealth isn't all in gold, 



lO 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



Mortgage and stocks and ten per cent. — 
But in simple ways and sweet content, 
Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends, 
Some land to till, and a few good friends, 

Like you, old Bay, 

And you, old Gray ! 
That's what I've learned by going away." 

And a happy man is Farmer John — 

O, a rich and happy man is he ! 
He sees the peas and pumpkins growing, 
The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing, 

And fruit on vine and tree; 
The large, kind oxen look their thanks 
As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks; 
The doves light round him, and strut and coo. 
Says Farmer John: ''I'll take you too — 
And you, old Bay, 
And you, old Gray, 
Next time I travel so far away !" 

John T. Trowbridge. 



'^/'^ ^^ '^' I y"f:if' \- 




W 



ihitjii'ihr 



iiiJj"m,-^^' 




'f 



., w:^.^^^^ 



THE SMALLEST PLANTS ON THE FARM 

'^What do you suppose I have in this pail?" asked 
Clark, as he came up the garden walk with a small pail 
and a child's spade in his hand. 

"I don't know," said Ruth, '^sn't it just earth?" 

"Just earth ! Pooh ! Maybe you won't believe me. 
I've a hundred miUion plants in this pail." 

''A hundred million plants!" and Ruth laughed loudly 
in derision. "Who's been filling your head with that 
nonsense?" 

"It's no nonsense, I tell you," replied Clark. "Father 
told me, and he knows." 

"Let me see them," asked Ruth, peering into the pail 
with just a touch of curiosity. "There! Didn't I tell 
you? It's just plain, ordinary earth!" 

"Listen," said Clark, "and I'll tell you what father 
says. He says that all this earth on our farm, if it's any 
good for growing things, is just packed full of the tiniest 
little plants, so small that you can't see them unless you 
look through a kind of glass that makes things look bigger ! " 

"Oh," interrupted Ruth, "isn't that dreadful! It's no 
wonder that weeds grow so fast, is it?" 

"No," continued Clark; "they're not that kind of 
plants at all. Father called them bacteria, and he says 
they're the best kind of plants on the farm — some of them 
are, anyway. Do you know what they do ? When father 
ploughs up the ground and covers up the dead leaves 



12 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



and grass and all the other dead things, there are millions 
and millions of bacteria there to feed on them, and that's 
what makes them rot and makes the earth rich. And 
there's another kind of bacteria that helps, too, in a dif- 
ferent way. Just wait till 
I show you!" 

Just across the lane was 
a clover-field, and in a 
moment Clark was back 
with a clover plant, root 
and all, in his hand. 

"See here," he contin- 
ued. ''Do you see those 
little bags that are hang- 
ing to the roots? Father 
says they're full of a thing 
called nitrogen that helps 
the clover to grow." 

''Isn't that curious!" 
exclaimed Ruth, unable 
any longer to restrain her 
show of interest. "How do the httle bags get there?" 

"I was just going to tell you," continued Clark. "It's 
the bacteria that makes them grow. You see, it's this 
way. The bacteria make their way into the roots, and 
father says they start up little nitrogen factories there. 
When they begin to gather nitrogen the roots swell up into 
these Httle balloons and the clover gets all the nitrogen it 
needs. Father says that if the ground didn't have any 
bacteria you couldn't grow clover or peas or beans or 
plenty of other things, because there wouldn't be any 




Root showing nodules. 



THE SMALLEST PLANTS ON THE FARM 13 

nitrogen factories for the roots. When father ploughs up 
this clover-field there'll be plenty of nitrogen in the ground, 
and he's going to take a load of earth from this field and 
sprinkle it on the field down by the woods so as to be sure 
there are bacteria in the ground before he plants his peas." 

''Bacteria/' repeated Ruth. ''Isn't it wonderful! How 
do you spell it?" 

"Oh, I don't know," returned Clark, as he moved away. 
"I must go down and help father now. Mother'll tell you 
how to spell it. Father says the bacteria make the bread 
rise and the preserves ferment. Mother knows about 
that. Ask her about it." 




Red clover in both pots. 
Bacteria were used in pot at right. 



THE ANIMAL TENT 

Chris had been at the circus, and, like all small boys, he 
was interested in the animal tent. It happened, besides, 
that just the previous week the teacher had been telling 
the class in nature study about the animals on the farm — 
where they had come from, how they had been tamed, 
and a great many other interesting things about their life 
and habits. At all events, as a result of the circus Chris 
had come home very tired; but, weary as he was, he in- 
sisted on going out with his father to the barn to do the 
chores. By this time it was quite dark, and when his 
father was busy with the lantern fixing up the cattle for 
the night, Chris lay down to rest on a pile of straw which 
was lying temptingly in one corner of the stable. 

He had not lain there very long before it seemed to 
him that the stable around him was somehow undergoing 
a mysterious change. Instead of his father's lantern 
there appeared to be a myriad dazzling lights ; the dingy 
walls of the stable took the form of a spacious tent; and 
instead of the stalls of the cattle and horses there were 
rows and rows of raised seats crowded with people who 
were waiting eagerly for the circus to begin. 

And then a great door at one end of the tent opened 
and the strangest sort of procession began to come in. 
First of all came a drove of queer-looking animals that 
Chris might have taken for horses, only they were smaller 
and had toes instead of hoofs, and were striped something 

14 



THE ANIMAL TENT 15 

like the zebras that he had seen at the circus that very 
day. Close behind these wild horses came a pack of 
wolves, which were strangely tame, Chris thought — but 
of course these were animals in a circus — and then as he 
looked at them he remembered what his teacher had told 
him about dogs being descended from wolves. The wolves, 
too, were followed by the queerest kind of cattle that 
Chris had ever seen — some with humps on their shoulders, 
some that looked like the buffalo that he had seen in pic- 
tures, and one that looked like the yak, which Chris's 
teacher had described as "a cross between a cow, a horse, 
and a load of hay." 

Then came the different members of the sheep family, 
with some of their far-away cousins — slow-plodding camels, 
*' bighorn" mountain-sheep, goats, llamas, and merinos — 
fine old patriarchs with great, curled horns and fleecy, 
wrinkled necks. 

The pit of the tent was by this time getting pretty well 
crowded; but the strangest company of all was still to 
come. Chris had seen the elephant and the rhinoceros and 
the hippopotamus and the tapir in the animal tent, and if 
any one had told him then that all these animals were 
members of the pig family, he would have found it hard 
to beheve — but, sure enough, here they w^ere; and in the 
same company there was a wild boar with great, fierce 
tusks; and a deer-hog that looked very much like a pig 
on stilts; and a queer-looking animal called a peccary, 
which came from Brazil; and, last of all, a whole drove of 
httle Chinese pigs from which, as Chris had been told, 
his own barn-yard family had mainly descended. 

And now that they were all in the tent and the doors 



1 6 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

fast shut, Chris began to feel a Httle anxious, for some of 
them looked, indeed, very wild and fierce. But at this 
moment another wonderful thing happened. A door 
opened in a little cave at one side of the tent, and out 
crawled the strangest looking man that Chris had ever 
seen — a hairy creature, with a low forehead and a dull, 
stupid face, and carrying in his hand a heavy club. Chris 
never rightly knew what happened next, but it seemed to 
him that the cave-man waved his club over the heads of 
all the animals, and suddenly, to Chris's astonishment, in 
a twinkling all the animals were changed. Instead of the 
herd of wild horses there appeared a splendid group of 
modern breeds, fine Belgian draught-horses, fiery Percherons 
from France, Clydesdales from Scotland and Shires from 
England, American trotters and EngUsh thoroughbreds, 
and fine carriage-horses of every possible kind. 

When Chris looked to see what had become of the pack 
of wolves, he could scarcely believ'e his eyes. Such an 
assortment of dogs he had never seen before ! It seemed 
to him that every imaginable size and breed of dog must 
be there, for he could not even begin to distinguish all the 
varieties, much less to name them. 

The buffalo, too, had gone, and all the other queer- 
looking ''cattle" with them, and their place was taken 
now by Holsteins, Ayrshires, and Jerseys and Guernseys, 
and beef breeds such as Shorthorns, Herefords, and Gallo- 
ways, which Chris had seen with his father at the fall 
fair. 

And beyond them, where the camels and llamas and 
mountain-sheep had appeared only a moment before, 
there were gathered now a flock of sheep and lambs. 



1 8 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Southdowns, Shropshires, and Cheviots; long-woolled 
Leicesters and Cotswolds, and wrinkled Merinos, and half 
a dozen other kinds which Chris had never seen before. 
The tent seemed less crowded now, too, for the elephant 
and rhinoceros and all the other big animals had gone and 
in place of them there appeared a drove of grunting swine — 
black Berkshires and Poland-Chinas, red-haired Duroc- 
Jerseys, and large-boned Chester- Whites, and other well- 
known breeds. 

During all this time Chris had been so interested in 
what was going on in the pit that he had forgotten all 
about the other people who were looking on. And now 
when he looked around, you may imagine his surprise to 
find that the crowd were all gone, and that his father 
and he were left alone; and, stranger still, when Chris 
looked back to the pit it was quite empty. The splendid 
horses and cattle and dogs and sheep and swine had all 
disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as they had come. 
And now Chris was quite ready to go home; but before he 
could move, the tent suddenly changed again, and it 
seemed to him now that it looked like the old barn-yard 
at home; and when the gate opened at the far end, in 
there marched, in single file, all the creatures that Chris 
knew and loved — Old Bess, with her colt; and Dan and 
Bill, the plough-horses; and Brindle and Beauty and all 
the other cows in the herd; and Nan, the tame sheep; and 
the flock of Southdowns from the back pasture; and the 
old mother pig with her litter — and Rover, — where was 
Rover? Ah, yes, here he comes. *'Here, Rover, Rover, 
Rov " 

And as Rover bounded forward he gave a joyous bark. 



THE COUNTRY BOY'S CREED 19 

At this the lights of the circus suddenly went out, and 
Chris awoke to find himself in the dimly-lighted stable, 
with Rover, good old dog, sticking his cold nose affection- 
ately in his face. 



THE COUNTRY BOY'S CREED 

I believe that the Country which God made is more 
beautiful than the City which man made; that Hfe out 
of doors and in touch with the earth is the natural Hfe of 
man. I believe that work is work wherever we find it, 
but that work with Nature is more inspiring than work 
with the most intricate machinery. I beheve that the 
dignity of labor depends not on what you do, but on how 
you do it; that opportunity comes to a boy on the farm as 
often as to a boy in the city, that hfe is larger and freer 
and happier on the farm than in the town, that my suc- 
cess depends not upon my location, but upon myself — not 
upon my dreams, but upon what I actually do, not upon 
luck, but upon pluck. I believe in working when you 
work and in playing when you play and in giving and 
demanding a square deal in every act of Hfe. 

Edwin Osgood Grover. 




SEPTEMBER 

The goldenrod is yellow; 

The corn is turning brown; 
The trees in apple orchards 

With fruit are bending down. 

The gentian's bluest fringes 
Are curling in the sun; 

In dusky pods the milkweed 
Its hidden silk has spun. 

The sedges flaunt their harvest 
In every meadow nook 

And asters by the brookside 
Make asters in the brook. 

From dewy lanes at morning 
The grape's sweet odors rise; 

At noon the roads all flutter 
With yellow butterflies. 

By all these lovely tokens 
September days are here, 

With summer's best of weather 
And autumn's best of cheer. 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 



THE SOIL 

In order that you may know how to make a good garden 
you ought to know something of the dijfferent kinds of 
soil that you may find on your farm and what kinds of 
plants will grow best in each. One way to learn about 
soil is to get samples of various kinds and study them; 
another way is to visit different places in the neighbor- 
hood and see for yourself the kinds of soil and what kinds 
of plants the different soils produce. In order that we 
may learn something about soils I am going to ask you 
this morning to visit with me in turn the sandy lake shore, 
a field of heavy clay, a swamp, and lastly, one of the fields 
on a farm where you find a mixture of sand and clay. 

Along the lake shore you are likely to find httle else but 
pure sand. Examine a handful of this sand and you will 
see that it is made up of small particles of stone. Indeed, 
if you were able to take great rocks, of the kind that are 
known as sandstone, and grind them up very fine, the 
rock-powder or rock-dust would be simply pure sand. 
Men who have studied this subject tell us that ages ago 
much of the surface of the earth was covered with rock; 
but in various ways, chiefly by the action of water, the 
rock has been worn down and ground into sand. 

If you look at the ridges of sand along the shore, you 
will not find many plants or shrubs growing on them, for, 
as you know, plants depend on the soil for the greater part 
of their food; and although pure sand contains most of 



22 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 




the mineral foods which the plant requires, yet it lacks 
some of the things which the plant needs. Besides, you 
will notice that, as it has not rained for several days, the 
sand is very dry. The coarse particles do not hold the 
water, and the sandy soil does not contain the amount of 

moisture that 
plants require 
for their growth. 
Let us, after 
leaving the lake 
shore, visit a 
field where the 
soil is made up 
of heavy clay. 
If you could ex- 
amine a lump of 
this clay under 
a microscope you would find that it, too, is made up of 
very fine particles of stone, so small that it is not easy to 
distinguish them with the naked eye. Since these parti- 
cles are so small, the water does not pass through them 
easily, and as a result in wet weather clay is very sticky, 
and in dry weather it bakes and becomes hard and 
white. If the weather is favorable and if the ground is 
thoroughly worked, it is possible to grow excellent crops on 
clay soil; but no farmer can hope to have the best re- 
sults from clay land unless he uses some means to loosen 
and soften his soil. 

Both pure sand and pure clay are made up of mineral 
matter; but if we visit a swamp or marsh we are almost 
certain to find soil of an entirely different kind. If you 



The soil on the left had humus added and held water, 
while the soil on the right had not. 



THE SOIL 23 

examine the soil in the swamp, you will find that it is very 
wet and black, and that it seems to produce an abundant 
growth of certain kinds of plants. If you were to take a 
pailful of this black earth home with you and dry it out 
and then put it in a shallow pan over a hot fire, you would 
find that a good part of it would smoulder away into 
ashes. As a matter of fact, it is composed almost wholly 
of dust of decayed plants and animals, and contains very 
Httle of the gritty substance found in clay or sand. This 
black material in the soil, which is due to the decay of 
dead leaves, grass, etc., is known as humus. Humus 
contains a large amount of plant food, and when it is added 
to soils that are composed of sand or of clay it helps to 
enrich them. But its chief value lies in the fact that it 
makes sandy soil more compact, and helps to make clay 
soil loose and mellow so that it is less Hkely either to be- 
come sticky in wet weather or to become hard and caked 
when the weather is dry. It sometimes happens that 
both sandy and clay soils contain a good deal of humus; 
but it is wise for the farmer, whenever possible, to add to 
the supply by ploughing in the grass, leaves, stubble, and 
other material that will take the form of humus when it 
decays. 

In some parts of the country the soil is very sandy, in 
others it is composed chiefly of clay. But, as a rule, the 
best farm land consists of a mixture of sand and clay. 
Soil that is composed of sand and clay is called loam. If 
it is composed more largely of sand than of clay, the soil 
is said to be a sandy loam, but if the clay forms the larger 
part of the soil it is said to be a clay loam. If now you 
visit a well-kept field where the soil is loam you will find 



24 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

that the earth is rich and mellow, that it is easily worked, 
and that it holds a proper amount of moisture. As we 
shall see later, different kinds of soils are suited to dif- 
ferent kinds of crops; but, on the whole, the farm which is 
composed of a rich loam soil, well supplied with humus 
and properly drained, is the one which is most likely to 
return an abundant harvest to the farmer. 



Have you a lawn in front of your farmhouse? If so, 
no doubt you take a pride in keeping it in good condition. 
If it is neglected and needs attention, how are you to im- 
prove it? The first thing to do is to dig the weeds out 
with a sharp knife. This is a tedious task; but do it lit- 
tle by little, and see how your lawn is improved in appear- 
ance. Is the grass thin in some parts of the lawn? After 
it is free from weeds, scratch the surface with a rake to 
the depth of half an inch and sow some grass seed. A 
mixture of red top, blue-grass, and white Dutch clover, 
in equal parts, will produce a good sod. After the seed 
is sown, the ground should be watered, and then rolled. 
Before winter sets in, treat your lawn with a top-dressing 
of well-rotted manure; but do not cover the sod too 
thickly or leave it on too long in the spring. 



SEED-TIME AND HARVEST* 
I. The Grave of Mondamin 

Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
Started from his bed of branches, 
From the twiHght of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin; 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 
Felt new Hfe and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine trees, 
, Uttered her loud cry of famine, 
And Mondamin paused to Ksten. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there. 
In his garments green and yellow; 
To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, ''O Hiawatha ! 

*" Hiawatha," from which the following passage is taken, is the story of a legendary 
Iroquois hero, who gave to the Indians the arts of peace and civilization. According to the 
Indian myth, he taught them agriculture, navigation, and medicine, and gave them control 
over the forces of nature. In the following passage the story of Hiawatha's victory over 
Mondamin is the poet's way of telling us how Hiawatha first planted maize, or Indian corn, 
and how it was harvested for the use of man. 

25 



26 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Bravely have you wrestled with me, 
And the Master of Life, who sees us, 
He has given to you the triumph ! 
Make a bed for me to He in, 
Where the rain may fall upon me. 
Where the sun may come and warm me; 
Strip these garments, green and yellow, 
Strip this nodding plumage from me, 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

Let no hand disturb my slumber. 
Let no weed nor worm molest me. 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 
Come to haunt me and molest me. 
Only come yourself to watch me, 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken. 
Till I leap into the sunshine." 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and Hght above him; 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moorlands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 



SEED-TIME AND HARVEST 27 

But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Mondamin; 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, 
Where his scattered plumes and garments 
Faded in the rain and sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiawatha 
Go to wait and watch beside it; 
Kept the dark mould soft above it, 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 
Then another and another. 
And before the summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty. 
With its shining robes about it. 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses; 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin ! 
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin !" 

II. The Harvest of the Cornfields 

All around the happy village 
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining, 
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin, 
Waved his soft and sunny tresses. 
Filling all the land with plenty. 



28 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

And the maize-field grew and ripened, 
Till it stood in all the splendor 
Of its garments green and yellow, 
Of its tassels and its plumage, 
And the maize-ears full and shining 
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure. 

Then Nokomis, the old woman, 
Spake, and said, to Minnehaha: 
^' 'Tis the moon when leaves are falling; 
All the wild rice has been gathered, 
And the maize is ripe and ready; 
Let us gather in the harvest. 
Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 
Strip him of his plumes and tassels, 
Of his garments green and yellow !" 

And the merry Laughing Water 
Went rejoicing from the wigwam, 
With Nokomis, old and wrinkled, 
And they called the women round them, 
Called the young men and the maidens. 
To the harvest of the cornfields, 
To the husking of the maize-ear. 
On the border of the forest. 
Underneath the fragrant pine trees. 
Sat the old men and the warriors 
Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 
In uninterrupted silence 
Looked they at the gamesome labor 
Of the young men and the women; 
Listened to their noisy talking. 
To their laughter and their singing, 



SEED-TIME AND HARVEST 29 

Heard them chattering Hke the magpies, 
Heard them laughing Hke the blue-jays, 
Heard them singing hke the robins. 

And whene'er some lucky maiden 
Found a red ear in the husking, 
Found a maize-ear red as blood is, 
^'Nushka !" cried they all together, 
'^Nushka ! you shall have a sweetheart, 
You shall have a handsome husband !" 
"Ugh !" the old men all responded 
From their seats beneath the pine trees. 

And whene'er a youth or maiden 
Found a crooked ear in husking, 
Found a maize-ear in the husking 
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, 
Then they laughed and sang together. 
Crept and hmped about the cornfields. 
Mimicked in their gait and gestures 
Some old man, bent almost double. 
Singing singly or together: 
"Wagemin, the thief of cornfields! 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! " 
Till the cornfields rang with laughter. 
Till from Hiawatha's wigwam 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 
Screamed and quivered in his anger. 
And from all the neighboring tree tops 
Cawed and croaked the black marauders. 
"Ugh !" the old men all responded. 
From their seats beneath the pine trees ! 

Henry Wads worth Longpellow (adapted). 




After the corn has been cut. 



THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB 

The Spring Valley Corn Club now consists of more than 
twenty boys and girls. But when it was first formed 
there were only four boys in it. It happened one Oc- 
tober evening when we four^Harry Parker, Jim Collins, 
George Brown, and myself — were over at Parker's, 
that we got to talking about the growing of corn and 
arguing as to why Mr. Parker's corn crop that year was a 
failure. Sam Parker, Harry's older brother, it seems, 
didn't like our talk, and he remarked — rather sarcastically, 
I thought: 

''Humph! A lot you know about corn. Better try it 
yourselves, if you think you can do it any better." 

That remark of Sam's — though it doesn't appear in the 
minutes of the club — was really the thing that gave us 
the first thought of forming a corn club. Before we left 

30 



THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB 31 

for home that night we had gone so far as to agree to ask 
our fathers for an acre of ground each, in which to grow 
corn, and we had agreed also to work together in order to 
learn all we could about corn, and to help each other with 
our one-acre plots when the proper time came. 

When I got home and explained the scheme to father 
he was just as eager about it as any of the boys, and I 
think if we. had let him he would have joined the club, 
too. It was he who suggested the idea of holding meet- 
ings of the club during the winter for the sake of finding 
out all we could about corn. And Mrs. Parker, too, 
made the suggestion that at some of our meetings we 
should have some one there to give us a talk about 
corn-growing. The boys thought that this was a capital 
idea, and we decided to ask Miss Stuart, the teacher 
in the Spring Valley school, to give us a talk at our first 
meeting. 

I forgot to mention that George Brown's father raised 
objections at first; and before he would agree to our plans 
we had to make arrangements about our seed-corn, our 
ploughing and other expenses, and our returns. This 
was, of course, a good thing for us, for it made us think 
of some of our difficulties; and after these arrangements 
were made we were better satisfied, and Mr. Brown w^as 
interested in our plans and anxious to help. It was at 
his home that we held our first meeting, and we were 
surprised and not a httle pleased to find that some of 
the neighbors had come in also to be present as 'S-isitors." 
At the first meeting of the club Miss Stuart had taken 
for her subject, "The Foods That Corn Needs." In order 
to make her explanation clear she put up before us a large 



32 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

sheet of cardboard on which she had marked the different 
kinds of foods and how they are provided: 

Corn Food How Provided 

Carbon Carbon dioxide breathed in by the leaves. 

Nitrogen SuppHed by legume crops. 

Potash In manure. 

Phosphorus In manure. 

Water and Air Provided by proper tillage. 

Carbon, Miss Stuart explained, forms over sixty per 
cent, of the substance in dry seed-corn. It is breathed in 
by the plant in the form of gas, through the breathing 
spaces in the stalks and leaves. These stalks and leaves 
will not grow unless the ground contains plenty of mois- 
ture. The best way to be sure that the ground contains 
the right amount of moisture is to plough deep, so that 
the roots will have plenty of space to spread and take up 
moisture from the soil. The soil, too, must contain an 
abundance of nitrogen, and for this reason it is best to 
plant corn in a field in which a crop of legumes, such as 
peas or clover, has been grown the previous year. Besides 
containing nitrogen, the soil must be provided also with 
potash and phosphoric acid, which are most easily supphed 
by manuring the ground properly. Miss Stuart's expla- 
nation was so simple that we could easily understand it, and 
when I went home I jotted down in the note-book father 
had given me, the three important things I had learned: 

1. Corn should follow legumes. 

2. Manure the ground well. 

3. Plough deep and till the soil well, so as to supply both 
air and moisture. 

{To he continued.) 




A happy family. 



POCKET-MONEY 



When a city boy wishes to earn pocket-money he sells 
newspapers, becomes a dehvery boy, or runs errands. 
What can a country boy do if he, too, aims at having a 
little bank account of his own? He has a way that is 
quicker and easier and much more interesting than any 
of the means the city boy has. He can raise poultry ! 
The cost of feeding poultry on a farm is low, and the 
labor of caring for it is lighter than that connected 
with other farm animals. The profits are certain and 
quick, since the demand for eggs and for chickens suit- 
able for table use is large and continuous. 

But to make it pay to keep hens you must give them 

33 



34 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

attention and not leave them to take care of themselves. 
If you are to get good returns you must know how to take 
care of them at all seasons of the year. It is true that a 
hen left to herself on a farm will pick up her own living 
and lay perhaps seventy-five eggs in a year; but a hen 
that is well cared for will lay at least three or four times 
that number of eggs. If you are to be a success in this 
business of making hens pay, you must work in a business- 
like way and not trust to ^'hit-or-miss" methods. 

First of all, decide which breed of hen you are going to 
keep. There are over one hundred varieties from which 
to choose. Some are general-purpose breeds, that is, they 
are good fowl for the table and yet are good layers. Others 
are meat breeds, that is, they are large, grow rapidly, and 
fatten easily. Others, again, are egg breeds, that begin 
laying while younger and continue for a longer period 
than other varieties. Then there are ornamental breeds, 
such as game-birds; but these are of no practical use on 
the farm. 

Having chosen your poultry, you must provide a house 
for them. While they may get along in summer by roost- 
ing along stable stalls or on wagon tongues — as so many 
farmers allow them to do — in winter they must have a 
clean, light building all to themselves. Now, there are 
almost as many different styles of hen-houses as there 
are kinds of hens, and you may make yours as plain or 
as ornamental as you choose. But whichever kind you 
build, there are certain requirements that this house must 
satisfy. 

It should be built on well-drained ground; for dampness 
is most injurious to chickens. It should be large enough 



POCKET-MONEV 35 

to allow four or five feet of floor space for each bird, and 
ought to be so ventilated as to allow plenty of fresh air to 
enter without causing draughts. Sunlight is another neces- 
sity, and you can make no mistake in building the poultry- 
house to face the south. If possible, build it on a con- 
crete foundation, as this will keep out rats. 

The inside of the house should be so finished and fur- 
nished that it may be easily kept clean. It is easier to 
keep vermin- away if the walls are lined with well-matched 
boards or are plastered. A cement floor can be cleaned 
more easily than any other kind. As fowls spend much 
time on their roosts, these should be comfortable. Remov- 
able nests are best, as they can be readily sunned and 
cleaned. 

The proper feeding of hens is as important as proper 
housing. In summer this is a simple matter, for the hens 
will pick up the larger part of what they need from ma- 
terial that would otherwise be wasted. Scattered grain 
left from the feeding of other animals; weed seeds, grass, 
and other green plants; worms and bugs — all help to give 
the necessary variety to the food. In winter, however, 
your flock depends upon you to supply their needs. And 
it is in winter, when eggs are at their highest price, that 
you must do everything possible to encourage your hens 
to lay steadily. It is well known that hens will not lay 
unless they are properly fed. Remember that fowls re- 
quire grain, meat or milk, mill feeds such as shorts, green 
foods, sharp grit, and water; and see that no one of these 
elements is left out. If the winter diet is made as nearly 
like the summer food as possible, and the hens are given 
exercise by having to scratch for part of their food, and if 



36 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

they are kept sufficiently warm, they will lay as freely in 
winter as in spring. 

There are a good many other things that you will need 
to learn in order to make a success of poultry-raising. 
Find out from experts all you can about how to secure 
good hatches, how to feed and care for very young chicks, 
how to fatten fowls for market, how to prevent diseases, 
and how to deal with bad habits such as that of egg- 
eating. In some farm communities, boys and girls have 
formed poultry clubs in order to learn all they can on the 
subject and to add interest to their work. 

If you keep to a first-class breed you can increase your 
profits by selling settings of eggs at high prices, and per- 
haps by winning prizes at agricultural exhibitions. In 
any case, keep a record of your flock, noting the number 
and value of eggs collected each day, and calculate the 
income from all sources, as well as all expenses. In this 
way you can know exactly what your profits are, and you 
will find that, besides having a hobby that is most inter- 
esting, you have an ever-increasing fund of pocket-money. 

M. B. Stevenson. 



"^j^^app^vy ^ 


:. ^.WM 


m~i':ic 




J»:'.:^*jte-.«W*. ■'^ ;* ::,^^^ 


#-^«^^'^ - f 


. -■^^— ■ -, -^ 


^r- 


■'^■. '■■•■■v,-"-' ■ 


^W . .", J 


1 


.^',. .. 


^ 


- '^ 


^-^ ■ 




limsmr^ 


w^ 


r I- 


"- ;.':-^-. 1- 


.<^^-mMtM 


Mr-^'^i^ 




,;^^^fc, h^ 


■ -m 


Vf*^'^- 


^m 



Picking up breakfast. 



THANKSGIVING SONG 

For flowers that bloom about our feet; 
For tender grass, so fresh, so sweet; 
For song of bird and hum of bee; 
For all things fair we hear or see — 
Father in heaven, we thank Thee ! 

For blue of stream and blue of sky; 
For pleasant shade of branches high; 
For fragrant air and cooHng breeze; 
For beauty of the blooming trees — 
Father in heaven, we thank Thee ! 

For mother love and father care, 
For brothers strong and sisters fair; 
For love at home and school each day; 
For guidance, lest we go astray — 
Father in heaven, we thank Thee ! 

For Thy dear, everlasting arms, 
That bear us o'er all ills and harms; 
For blessed words of long ago, 
That help us now Thy will to know — 
Father in heaven, we thank Thee ! 



Z1 



A RACCOON HUNT 

It was getting near cooning time, and, like most boys, 
I was enthusiastic; and I eagerly watched the ripening of 
the corn and examined the margin of the creek from time 
to time to see if there were any fresh coon tracks in the 
mud and sand. 

Our woods was an exceptionally large one, — nearly fifty 
acres of virgin forest; but it was broken by a large creek 
or river flowing through the lower end. Adjoining the 
lower half of the woods was a large field of corn; and as 
this field was a safe distance from the house and 'from 
Jerry, the farm dog, it was an ideal situation, just after a 
coon's own heart. 

Our first coon hunt was a failure out and out. ''Too 
early to go coonin' yet," said the hired man. ''Coons 
don't take to the corn till it's jest a wee bit tough;" and 
besides there was no dew on the grass; and every farmer's 
boy knows that you can't track a coon, or any other wild 
animal for that matter, without dew. So the dogs took 
to chasing rabbits in the corn and the hired man to telhng 
coon stories, and our first coon hunt ended early in the 
night with a long rest on the rail fence, while we feasted 
on the small sweet yellow pears which we had gathered 
from an old tree in a deserted remnant of an orchard at the 
back of the farm. 

Notwithstanding my own eagerness, the hired man re- 
fused to risk his reputation on another coon hunt for a 
full fortnight, and this time we certainly had enough of 

38 



A RACCOON HUNT 39 

the sport. It was an ideal night, quiet and calm, with 
hardly a breath of wind, and a heavy dew on the grass. 
We started shortly after dark, for when the corn is close 
to the woods the coons come out early, and by nine o'clock 
the feasting may be over. Before we had reached the 
cornfield the moon had already begun to silver the east; 
and before long the whole stretch of woodland, together 
with stream and valley, were bathed in a mellow radiance, 
while the fields of stubble with their shadowy fences died 
away in the misty distance and the lights of the farms 
behind twinkled dim and faint in the haze of the moon- 
light. 

As we neared the cornfield w^e walked very stealthily 
and spoke in low tones, while the dogs threaded the lanes 
of corn in every direction. We had not gone far before 
the hired man suddenly stopped, broke off an ear of corn 
and held it up to view. There was no mistake about it 
this time; one side of the ear had been freshly stripped 
and bitten. Now there was no doubt about it — to-night, 
at least, there were coons in the corn. 

Suddenly in the midst of our whispered consultation, 
Jerry, our best coon dog, flung past us, sprang for a hole 
in the fence, and a moment later was giving tongue a 
hundred yards away in the woods. We followed with a 
mad rush, tumbling over each other in our haste and 
excitement. The chase led us in the direction of a big 
maple, but before we reached it we were brought to a 
sudden standstill by the dogs at the foot of a tall bass- 
wood that stood on the very edge of the steep, sloping 
bank, overlooking the stream. Out on the end of one of 
the thickest branches we distinctly saw the bunchy form 



40 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

of a big coon, with two small eyes glimmering like faint 
sparks of light from amid the leaves. 

In our party guns were strictly forbidden, as being be- 
neath the dignity of the sportsman at this season of the 




Watchful waiting. 

year at least. So there was nothing for it but for the hired 
man to put on the climbers, go up the tree, and shake 
him out. 

It took a good deal of shaking, but to our delight down 
he came at last with a thud, and in an instant the dogs 
were upon him; and then the unexpected happened! 
When a coon fights it is generally on his back, and then 
teeth and claws and powerful hind feet are victorious 



A RACCOON HUNT 41 

weapons. Perhaps one of the dogs rushed in too quickly, 
but, at all events, the coon secured a grip on his adver- 
sary's neck; and, quicker than it takes to tell, coon and 
dogs alike, biting, scratching, snarling, had rolled over and 
over down the steep bank and into the stream. A 
moment later the coon was shambling up the opposite 
bank and was lost to view in the woods beyond. 

We lost no time in following, getting our feet wet in 
the creek by the way, and this time the dogs led us straight 
to the big maple. Here our chase ended, for the monster 
maple was alike too big to climb or to think of cutting down. 

On the other side of the wood we came upon an old she- 
coon with two half-grown cubs travelHng along the fence. 
The cubs took to a tree, but the old coon was killed by the 
dogs, and the hired man removed the skin, grumbling all 
the while that the fur was not thicker and a blacker shade; 
for, of course, the winter skins are always better, and the 
blacker the fur the bigger price it will bring. 

We ended with a bonfire and a corn roast, to which 
the girls of the farm were invited. The hired man in- 
sisted that every boy should eat his own length in corn, but 
he failed to set the example himself; and so we finished off 
with musk melon and fresh cider, and told the usual stories 
and laughed at the usual jokes, until the fire had died out 
and it was time for the happy evening to end. 



Though we should be grateful for good houses, there is, 
after all, no house like God's out-of-doors. 

R. L. Stevenson. 



THE STORY OF COTTON 

In early times, travellers returning to Europe from 
India reported that they had seen wool growing wild on 
trees. This ''wool" was, of course, none other than cotton. 
The people of India had already learned the arts of weav- 
ing and dyeing, and in the course of time traders began 
to bring back with them from the East, fine cotton fabrics. 
In later times, when the people of Europe had learned more 
about this wonderful "wool-bearing" plant, an attempt 
was made to introduce it into southern Europe; but owing 
to the climate, only a small amount could be grown in 
European countries. 

When America was discovered, Columbus found the 
cotton-plant growing wild in the tropics; and this was 
one of the reasons why he at first believed that he had 
reached India. Later on, when the first settlements were 
made in the Southern States, the colonists attempted to 
grow cotton as a cultivated crop; but on account of the 
cold winters, the plants died down every year; and when 
at last the settlers succeeded in producing cotton that was 
suited to the climate, they found that in the case of this 
new variety it was very difficult to separate the hnt from 
the seed. On those farms where cotton was grown, the 
members of the family spent their evenings in picking 
lint, and a shoeful of cotton was considered a good even- 
ing's work. 

Among the colonists were men and women who had 
learned the arts of spinning and weaving before coming 

42 



THE STORY OF COTTON 



43 



to America; and the spinning-wheel and the primitive 
hand-loom were brought into use for spinning and weaving 
cotton. But the fibre of the cotton which was grown in 
the Southern States was so short and coarse that it could 




Eli Whitney's cotton-gin. 



not be spun into fine thread without breaking; and when 
made into cloth it was usually mixed with wool or flax. 
At best, the manufacture of cloth was a slow process, for 
with the old spinning-wheel only a single thread could 
be spun at one time, and the weavers found it difiicult 
to get enough thread to keep their looms going. In the 
year 1769, however, an English mechanic, named Ark- 



44 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

wright, invented a spinning-frame, by means of which 
a large number of threads could be spun at one time; 
and about the same time a Lancashire weaver, named 
Hargreaves, invented a machine known as the spinning- 
jenny (named after his daughter Jenny), which made it 
possible to spin fine, strong, cotton thread which would 
not break in the weaving. Later on, a weaver named 
Compton combined the spinning-frame and the spinning- 
jenny into a single machine which was known as a ''mule." 

But now that it was possible to spin cotton thread as 
fast as it was needed, a new difficulty appeared. It was 
impossible to obtain a large supply of cotton because the 
Hnt had to be picked by hand, and this, as we have seen, 
was a very slow process. In 1793, however, an American 
mechanic, named EH Whitney, invented a cotton-gin {gin 
is a shortened form of the word engine), by which the 
lint could easily be separated from the seed; and, needless 
to say, this invention gave an immense impetus to the 
growing of cotton in the South. 

Up to this time most of the cotton grown in America 
had been sent to England, and after the Arkwright ma- 
chines were invented, their secrets were guarded very 
carefully. But in 1790 a weaver named Samuel Slater, 
who had learned his trade in England, succeeded in re- 
producing these machines in America. From that time 
forward, the manufacturing industry steadily increased, 
until at the present time nearly two thousand cotton- 
mills are in operation in the United States. 



HOW PLANTS ARE FED 

The boys and girls on the farm would think they were 
badly treated if they did not get three good meals a day, 
and most farmers are very careful about feeding the 
horses, cows, pigs, and other animals on the farm. But 
how about feeding the plants? Some farmers never 
think that the wheat, and oats, and potato plants, in 
fact all the plants on the farm, need to be fed, just as the 
live stock or the farmer's family themselves. Of course, 
when the soil is in good condition, the plants are able to 
help themselves to the food they need, but sometimes 
they cannot get the things they want, and then they 
starve, just as people do who are not fed. 

Plants get their food partly by breathing and partly by 
drinking it in. From the air they breathe in a gas which 
is known as carbon dioxide, and this gas supplies them 
with carbon, which is necessary to their growth. From 
the soil the tiny rootlets drink up the water, and this 
water contains many different plant-foods which have 
been dissolved in it. Every crop that is taken from the 
fields helps to use up these plant-foods, and if this con- 
tinues, the soil at length becomes ''worn out," or, in other 
words, the supply of plant-foods becomes exhausted. 

The three substances which are most frequently lack- 
ing in worn-out soil are phosphoric acid, potash, and ni- 
trogen. When seeds shrivel up and do not grow, it is some- 
times a sign that there is not enough phosphoric acid in 
the soil. Barn-yard manure generally contains a good 
supply of this acid, and in addition, artificial fertilizers 

45 



46 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



composed of bone-dust or of rock-dust containing phos- 
phorus are frequently used. 

When fruits are undersized or imperfect, it is sometimes 
a sign that the plant has not received a sufficient supply of 

potash. As a mat- 
ter of fact, there is 
generally enough 
potash in the soil to 
serve as food for the 
plants, but it is 
sometimes ''locked 
up" with other ma- 
terials in such a way 
that it does not dis- 
solve in the water. 
The farmer may 
either add a supply 
of fresh potash to 
the soil or he may 
take some means to 
release the supply 
that is ''locked up." 
When lime is added 
to the soil, some of 
this potash is generally set free. Barn-yard manure con- 
tains a certain amount of potash, and wood-ashes also 
are of value as a fertihzer on account of the amount of 
potash they contain. 

When plants are yellow or sickly and refuse to grow, it 
is sometimes a sign that there is not enough nitrogen in 
the soil; for the growth of leaves and stalks depends 




Showing the effect of the absence of nitrogen, 

potassium, or phosphorus. 
The pot on the left lacks potash; the next lacks nitrate; 

the next lacks neither phosphate, potash, nor nitrate; 

the last lacks phosphate. 



HOW PLANTS ARE FED 47 

largely upon the supply of nitrogen. Nitrogen is a gas 
and it forms a large part of the air we breathe; but in 
order that it may be used as a plant-food it must be taken 
into the plant through the roots, and the farmer must see 
that there is a sufficient quantity of nitrogen in the soil. 
When the ground is turned up by the plough and the 
harrow, so that fresh surfaces are exposed to the air, the 
nitrogen in the air has a chance to penetrate it. A certain 
amount of nitrogen also is contained in manure and in 
certain other fertilizers that are ploughed into the soil. 
But the chief means upon which the farmer must rely for 
the proper supply of nitrogen is the cultivation of bac- 
teria in the soil. What bacteria are and how they are 
cultivated we have read elsewhere. 

Most of the other foods which the plant requires are 
minerals which are found in abundant quantities in the 
soil, and the farmer does not need to think about renewing 
the supply. But even if the soil does contain all the 
necessary plant-foods, there may be other reasons why the 
ground does not produce a good crop. Sometimes the 
particles of soil are so tightly packed that the air does 
not have a chance to get in around the roots, and if the 
roots do not get a proper amount of air, the plant will not 
thrive. Sometimes, too, the ground holds too much 
moisture and the water fills up the air-spaces in the soil. 
Or it may happen, on the other hand, that the ground is 
too dry, and without moisture it is impossible, as we have 
seen, for the plant to obtain its food. The farmer, then, 
must not only be careful to supply the proper plant-foods, 
but also to see that the soil is in a proper condition for 
the plant to use them. 




INDIAN SUMMER 

Along the line of smoky hills 

The crimson forest stands, 
And all the day the blue-jay calls 

Throughout the autumn lands. 

Now by the brook the maple leans 

With all his glory spread, 
And all the sumacs on the hills 

Have turned their green to red. 

Now by great marshes wrapt in mist, 

Or past some river's mouth, 
Throughout the long, still autumn day 

Wild birds are flying south. 

Wilfred Campbell. 
48 



THE CAMPAIGN 

It was about the time when the great European war 
V as at its height. Dick had been reading about the 
siege of Paris in 1870 and the famous siege of Antwerp in 

1585. ^ ■ 

''I wish I could go to the war," he exclaimed, as he 
threw down the book he was reading. ''It must be 
great!" 

''Don't be a fool, Dick!" replied Milton. "You don't 
want to go to the war." 

"Don't I?" snapped Dick. "I just wish I were old 
enough and I'd show you !" 

"Yes," said Nora from across the table, "and I'd go 
and be a Red Cross nurse to take care of you when you 
were wounded, and Milton here " 

"I'd stay right here," interrupted Milton, "and grow 
grain and potatoes for you and Dick to live on !" 

At this point Uncle Ben, who had been sitting in the 
big chair by the fireplace reading a farmers' magazine, 
looked up from his reading and remarked: 

"If Dick really wants to go to war he can begin fighting 
to-morrow." 

"Where?" inquired Dick eagerly. 

"Where? Why, right here on this farm! You didn't 
know it was besieged, did you ? Well, it is, and this farm- 
house is the fort. Some of the enemy have taken cover 
in the woods; some of them have thrown up earthworks 

49 



50 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

in the fields, and yesterday, would you believe it, I saw an 
aviator spying out the farm. Down around the outer 
forts the enemy keeps under cover, — but what do you 
say? If Dick here wants to play war, let us begin right 
here on this farm. Only I want to be appointed general." 

Dick thought it would be great fun, and Nora and 
Milton agreed to join on one condition — that Nora should 
not be called upon to do any of the actual fighting. And 
right there and then Uncle Ben proposed that they draw 
up a plan of campaign. The first thing, they all agreed, 
was to make an estimate of their enemies, and while the 
boys made suggestions. Uncle Ben wrote down a list of the 
different enemies to be attacked. When the fist was com- 
plete it ran somewhat as follows: 

The Army of Rats — thoroughly intrenched in the barn; 
one detachment in the root-house and cellar. 

The Army of Wood-Hares — the enemy's scouting column 
— in the brush piles and hedges and the deep grasses in the 
fields. 

The Army of Hawks and Owls — the aviation corps of 
the enemy. 

The Army of Woodchucks and Skunks — the sappers and 
miners. 

The Army of House-Sparrows, and the Army of Field- 
Mice, who interfered with the food suppHes. 

The Army of House-Flies, who brought disease and pes- 
tilence into the camp of the defenders. 

Besides these, there were the great armies of bugs, beetles, 
and worms — and, worse than all, a vast, onrushing horde 
of weeds which could only be driven out at the point of 
the bayonet; for what is a hoe, after all, but a bayonet of 



THE CAMPAIGN 51 

a special kind, with the point hammered out and turned 
down? 

''It will be a long war," said General Ben, as he laid 
the Hst down on the table. "It is sure to last through the 
winter; and next spring and summer there will be a great 
deal of hard fighting. If we are going to win we must go 
about it systematically; and the first thing for us to do 
is to get all the information we can about the enemy. 
Suppose we leave it to Nora to read up what the great 
generals have written about the best means of carrying 
on a war like this. And Dick and Milton here will go 
down and spy out the enemy and find out where they are 
intrenched, and after we have all the information we 
need we shall be ready to declare war." 

''Let us make it a surprise attack," said Dick. "Where 
shall we begin, uncle — I mean, General Ben?" 

General Ben pointed out that, since it was late in the 
season, it would be useless for them to attempt to make 
an attack on the army of insects and weeds until spring; 
and after further consultation it was agreed that they 
should begin the campaign by planning an attack on the 
army of rats, and that in the meantime they should try 
to learn as much as possible about the best means of 
meeting their other enemies. 

It took Nora several days to gather the necessary in- 
formation as to the best means of making an attack on 
the rats, but when finally her report was ready it ran some- 
what as follows: 

"There are many different kinds of rats, but the one 
that gives farmers most trouble is the brown, or Norway, 
rat. It destroys the grain in the fields and in the barns; 



52 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

it eats eggs and kills young poultry; it carries disease from 
place to place; and, besides this, it does great damage to 
farm buildings. The best way to fight against rats is to 
starve them out by keeping grain and other supphes in 
rat-proof buildings. Silos, grain bins, and floors of stables 
should be made of cement, or else the corners and angles, 
through which rats usually gnaw, should be covered with 
sheet-iron. If this is impossible, the walls and floors 
should at least be hned with strong wire screening. All 
rubbish piles which may form hiding-places for rats should 
be removed, and stacks should not be left standing any 
longer than is necessary. ' Rats may be destroyed by means 
of traps or by the use of poison or gas. But both poison 
and gas must be used with great care, and, on the whole, 
rats can be more easily destroyed by the use of traps than 
by any other means." 

After Nora's report had been considered, it was decided 
to begin the attack at once. General Ben and the boys 
agreed to go over the outer forts and see whether it was 
possible to destroy any of the dug-outs and trenches and 
the bomb-proof shelters of the enemy; and at the same time 
General Ben undertook to repair the breaches in the walls 
and, if possible, cut off all food supphes. The boys in 
the meantime asked permission to read up everything 
they could find regarding the use of traps. 

''It isn't quite fair, you know," said Milton, ''to use 
either gas or poison in a real war, but it is all right for us 
to lay 'traps.' " 

The mihtary authorities who wrote about traps were 
pretty generally agreed that the "guillotine" trap was the 
best kind to use, and, as they are very cheap, General Ben 



THE CAMPAIGN 53 

laid in a supply of half a dozen the next time he went to 
town. But both Dick and Milton were very anxious to 
try the barrel trap, and the "deadfall" or the ''figure- 
four," and General Ben agreed to help them to make both 
kinds, on condition that they should keep them out of the 
way of the poultry and other farm animals. 

The campaign against the rats resulted in a general 
cleaning up • of the farmyard and an overhauling of the 
grain bins and storehouses, and enough rats were caught 
in the traps in the first week to encourage the boys to 
continue the campaign throughout the winter; and Nora, 
who was keeping the official bulletins of the war in her 
diary, made the following entry: 

''Nov. 27. During the past week General Ben, Lieu- 
tenant Dick, and Major Milton made a fierce attack on 
the army of General Brown-Rat. A large number of the 
enemy have been killed or wounded, including a number 
of officers. All prisoners were promptly put to death. 
Major Milton was slightly injured by falling into a trap 
which he had laid for the enemy." 

{To he continued.) 



This is a good time for the well-trained, farm-minded 
young man or woman to go into agriculture; but one 
should be sure that he has the quahfications. There is no 
need that farming provide only a narrow and deadening 
life. One may express there all the resources of a good 
education. 

L. H. Bailey. 

53 



HOMESICK 

I want to go back to the orchard, 
The orchard that used to be mine; 

The apples are reddening and filhng 
The air with their wine. 

I want to wake up in the morning 
To the chirp of the birds in the eaves, 

I want the west wind through the cornfields, 
The rustle of leaves. 

I want the old song of the river. 

The Uttle low laugh of the rills, 
I want the warm blue of September 

Again on the hills. 

I want to He down in the woodland 
Where the feathery clematis shines, 

God's blue sky above, and about me 
The peace of the pines. 

nights, you are weary and dreary 

And days there is something you lack, 

To the farm in the little old valley 

I want to go back. 

Alice Cain. 



54 



WINTER 




^^g'^:C^t>=S^='^^-^3iJ^-^^^%lU--<xSb^^=^ 



V^ 



BACK TO THE SOIL 



Every farmer boy wants to be a school- 
teacher, every school-teacher hopes to be an 
editor, every editor hopes to be a banker, 
every banker hopes to be a trust magnate, 
and every trust magnate hopes some day to 
own a farm and have chickens and cows and 
pigs and horses to look after. 
''We end where we begin." 



JSfe^w^=^^ 



•^^^*=lSKa.^?^=«^^^^ 



JACK FROST 

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, 
And whispered: ''Now I shall be out of sight; 
So, through the valley, and over the height, 

In silence I'll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train. 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, 
They make so much bustle and noise in vain; 

But I'll be as busy as they." 

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest, 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed 
In diamond beads; and over the breast 

Of the quivering lake he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear 
That hung on its margin, far and near, 

Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped 

By the light of the moon were seen 
Most beautiful things: there were flowers and trees; 
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; 
There were cities, with temples and towers — and these 

All pictured in silver sheen. 
57 



58 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair; 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare — 

''Now, just to set them a- thinking, 
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; 
''This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; 
And the glass of water they've left for me 

Shall 'tchick !' to tell them I'm drinking." 

Hannah F. Gould. 




In Jack Frost's country. 



KEEPING UP THE SOIL 

One of the first things the farmer must think of, if he 
wishes to keep his farm in proper condition, is how he 
can return to the soil the plant-food that is taken off with 
the crops;, for if he continues to rob the soil without 
making any returns, it is certain that, sooner or later, 
the supply of plant-foods will be used up and the soil will 
become "worn out." 

Some farmers sell their entire crop every year, and in 
order to keep the land in good condition they must, of 
course, buy fertilizers to put on it. But the more intel- 
ligent farmers are coming to see that it is better in most 
cases to feed the crops to their own live stock, and to re- 
turn the plant-food to the soil in the form of manure. When 
the farmer sells his fat cattle, sheep, or hogs, he gets a 
good price for his grain in another form, and is, besides, 
able to return to the soil about seventy -five per cent, of 
the plant-foods which he has taken off. Each ton of 
manure contains about ten pounds of nitrogen, five pounds 
of phosphoric acid, and ten pounds of potash, for which 
the farmer would have to pay at least $2.25, if he had to 
buy it. And, besides this, the manure improves the soil 
by providing organic matter, which keeps up the supply 
of humus. 

Since manure is of such value to the farmer, proper care 
must be taken to see that none of its strength is lost. On 
many farms little care is taken to preserve the liquid 
manure, although it is in reality more valuable than the 

59 



6o COUNTRY LIFE READER 

solid material in the manure. But in the better class of 
stables the floors are now made of concrete, so as to pre- 
vent the liquid manure from being drained off into the 
ground; and plenty of bedding is suppHed, so as to absorb 
the moisture. 

More than one half of the sohd material in manure is 
soluble; that is, it will dissolve in water, and when manure 
is left in piles, either in the barn-yard or the fields, and is 
exposed to the rain, a large part of it dissolves and runs 
off in Httle streams or soaks into the ground. There are 
several ways of preventing this. If it is possible to have 
the fresh manure taken out to the fields and spread over 
the ground at once, none of its strength will be lost. But 
if this is impossible, it should be stored in a manure shed 
which is roofed over and which has a. tight floor to pre- 
vent the loss of the liquid manure. But in any case it 
is best to spread the manure on the land as soon as possible. 
When the manure is taken to the fields it should not be 
left standing in piles, but should be spread evenly over the 
ground. 

When manure is left exposed in piles, even in a manure 
shed, unless care is taken it is likely to ferment through 
heating, and the nitrogen which it contains evaporates 
in the form of gas. To prevent heating, the manure should 
be packed down or else covered with a layer of earth, so 
that the air wifl not get at it. It is the bacteria in the 
manure that cause the gas to form, and unless they are 
suppHed with air the bacteria cannot work. 

Besides taking care of the manure that is removed from 
the stables, the wide-awake farmer will use some means 
to prevent the manure in the barn-yard itself from being 



KEEPING UP THE SOIL 6i 

wasted. On some farms covered sheds are built, in which 
the stock run loose; and since the manure in these sheds 
is not exposed to the rain it may be removed, when re- 
quired, to the fields, without the loss of much of its 
strength. 

A farmer who feeds all his grain to his stock and takes 
proper care of the manure will be able, in most cases, to 
keep his soil in good condition without having to use other 
fertilizers to any great extent. If more nitrogen is needed, 
it may be supphed by the growth of legumes. Potash is 
not only contained in the manure itself, but is set free 
from the soil by the reaction of the manure and the plant 
refuse that is turned under. Phosphoric acid is the only 
plant-food which may have to be provided, and it may 
easily be obtained in the form of acid phosphate or some 
other fertilizer containing phosphorus. But the farmer 
who sells his grain and other produce instead of feeding 
it to his Hve stock, must, of course, keep up the quality of 
his soil by the use of commercial fertihzers. 



And I must work thro' months of toil, 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom: 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB 

(Continued) 

The Spring Valley Corn Club met once a month during 
the winter, and at each meeting some subject relating to 
the growth and uses of corn was explained and discussed. 
The evening we met at Jim Collins's home, Herb Patter- 
son, who was Jim's cousin, gave us a talk on some of the 
uses of corn. I had never heard of corn being used for 
anything besides food, and I was surprised to learn what 
a number of things are made from the different parts of 
the plant. The husks and the stalk. Herb explained, 
are used to make the finest grades of paper. The stalks 
contain material that is used in making smokeless powder, 
and in the manufacture of moving-picture films. Corn- 
pith is used as lining for the armor-plate of vessels, so 
that in the case of any small opening below the water- 
line the water will make the lining swell so as to close the 
hole. Silk used in making ties is adulterated with material 
from the pith of the corn stalk. Among the chief products 
of corn are glucose, or corn syrup, and starch. Starch ob- 
tained from corn is used in many different ways, among 
others in the manufacture of cotton fabrics, paper, muci- 
lage, baking-powder, and icing for candies. The oil from 
the heart of the kernel is especially valuable because it is 
free from gum, and it is used not only for table purposes 
but in the manufacture of artificial butter, toilet-soap, 
paints, and lubricating oils. From this corn-oil the ma- 

62 



THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB 63 

terial known as corn rubber is also manufactured. This 
rubber resembles real rubber very closely, and it is used 
in making rubber boots and shoes, belting, door-mats, 
and linoleum; but it does not wear as well as pure rubber. 
Corn is also one of the sources from which alcohol is manu- 
factured, and denatured alcohol, which is used for heating 
and lighting, can be made from corn more cheaply than 
from any other material. 

When the meeting was held at Harry Parker's house 
Mrs. Parker and her daughter Jean had a surprise in store 
for us. She had promised to show us some of the ways 
in which corn can be used for food; and she had invited 
some of the other boys and girls in the section in order to 
try to interest them in the work of the club. You may 
imagine how delighted we were to find that she had pre- 
pared a tempting array of good things which were made 
from different materials obtained from corn. Green corn 
was, of course, out of season, but there were plates of hot 
Johnny-cake and corn syrup with a ''maple" flavoring; 
corn muflins and southern corn pone; blanc-manges of all 
colors and flavors, made from corn-starch, and, to crown 
all, huge bowls of dehcious pop-corn, buttered and sweet- 
ened, which no boy or girl can resist. 

While we were enjoying the pop-corn Mrs. Parker 
talked to us about the uses of corn as a food. Li order 
that the things we eat may be of any value to us as food, 
she explained, they must contain some of the following 
substances: carbohydrates, protein, fat, mineral matter (or 
ash), and water. Carbohydrates are contained in such, 
substances as sugar and starch; and both carbohydrates 
and fat supply heat and energy to the body. Protein, 



64 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

which forms a large part of meat, eggs, and cheese, repairs 
the waste and helps to build up the working parts of the 
body. Mineral matter is necessary for the growth of the 
bones. 

Corn is composed of: 

Carbohydrates 72.6 per cent. 

Protein 10.3 per cent. 

Fat (oil) 5-0 per cent. 

Mineral matter (ash) i-S per cent. 

Water 10.6 per cent. 

loo.o per cent. 

For growing animals, such as young pigs, and for animals 
which are required to work, such as horses, more protein 
and mineral matter are needed than they can get from 
corn alone; but corn is the chief food upon which we de- 
pend for fattening hogs and cattle; and corn fodder from 
the silo is one of the best foods for dairy cattle. For the 
farmer himself, corn meal is an excellent food, especially 
if used with other foods, such as cream and butter. 

One of the results of this meeting was a large increase in 
the membership of the club; for, of course, all the boys 
and girls whom Mrs. Parker had invited wished to join; 
and before we left for home that evening it was agreed 
that we should ask Miss Stuart to allow us to hold our 
next meeting at the school, so that all the boys and girls 
in the district who wished to do so might have an oppor- 
tunity to become members. 

{To he continued^ 







^v 



^^ 



Begin the study of trees in winter. 



THE TREES ON THE FARM 



The best time to begin the study of trees is in winter, 
for when they are bare of leaves it is much easier to get 
an idea of their general size and form. On this winter 
afternoon, then, let us take a walk across the fields and 
through the woods where we are Hkely to meet some of 
the trees that are commonly found on the farm. 

On this particular farm the owner has left one or two 
trees standing in his fields, partly, no doubt, because they 
give shade to his horses and cattle in summer, and partly 
because the trees in themselves are very beautiful. The 
tree which you see at the far end of this field is an Amer- 
ican elm. You know it at once by its general umbrella or 
parasol shape; for the trunk is tall and bare, and the 
branches run upward with the trunk and then, spreading 
out hke a fan, fall in a graceful droop like the circle of 
spray from a playing fountain. Is it any wonder that 

65 



66 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

the raccoon and the black squirrel are fond of the elm, 
whose lofty trunk affords them a safe retreat, and that 
the oriole hangs its woven basket in safety from the pen- 
dent boughs? The orioles seldom build in the country; 
but in the town or city where you have a graceful elm 
drooping over the shady street, look, on the next day 
that you are passing, and see if there are not, swinging 
from its lowest boughs, the remnants of two or three old 
oriole nests, and perhaps, also, the httle shallow basket of 
the warbHng vireo, whom the boys call the weaver-bird. 

Aside from its general shape and flaky bark there is not 
much to be learned of the elm in winter, but if I could 
bring you back in the spring, in March or April, even 
before the leaves were out, you might see the tree covered 
with the delicate reddish flowers upon which the red squirrel 
feasts; and later, in May, you would find the ground 
carpeted with the Httle round seeds, which are carried 
lightly away by the wind and water to sprout and flourish, 
it may be, by the margins of far-away streams. 

When we cross into the next field we come to a stretch 
of rising ground, and half-way up the slope there stands 
a "hard" or ''sugar" maple. This tree prefers rich and 
dry soil, while its two not less beautiful cousins, the red 
and the silver maples, commonly called ''soft" maples, 
favor the moist pasture-land in the valley below. In 
the winter it is difficult to distinguish the hard maple 
from the soft, but the hard maple is known in general by 
its larger size, its more rugged appearance, its more 
rounded and symmetrical shape, and its light-colored 
bark. The branches of the soft red maple are more erect 
than those of the hard sugar-maple, while, on the other 




The maple and elm trees in winter. 



68 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

hand, the branches of the soft silver maple have a decided 
droop, which gives it a deHcate, graceful appearance. 
The bark of both the soft maples is of a darker shade than 
that of the hard maples, and a soft maple may often be 
distinguished by its reddish-brown color. 

In the summer, when the leaves are on the trees, it is 
an easy matter to tell the different kinds of maples apart, 
and in winter the dead leaves on the ground will help you 
to identify the trees. You will notice that the leaves of 
the sugar-maple are larger and that they have not the 
finely toothed notches which the soft maples have. The 
leaf of the soft silver maple is not only finely toothed, 
but its five lobes are separated by very deep and sharp 
indentations. These distinctions are very simple. 

Moreover, in the spring-time both the soft maples flower 
earlier than the sugar-maple, and the ground is covered 
with their seeds in May and June; whereas the hard maple 
does not bear its seeds, or samaras, till the fall. The soft 
red maple is, of course, the tree whose leaves change to 
such gorgeous hues of red in the autumn, while the leaves 
of the hard maple turn not to red but to a clear and bril- 
liant yellow. 

At the top of the slope we climb the old rail fence, and 
cross into the wood which covers the hillside beyond. 
Not far from the foot of the hill is a beautiful beech tree. 
There is no possibility of mistaking a beech for any other 
tree, for its smooth and beautifully mottled bark and its 
thick, bunchy, irregular branches mark it out at once 
from all others. ''The Painted Beech," artists have called 
it — a beautiful name, apphed to a not less beautiful tree. 
I have always been fond of the beech, not only for its 



THE TREES ON THE FARM 69 

beauty, but on account, too, of the company of animals 
and birds that its bountiful supply of fruit attracts. In 
the summer it is the nesting-place of the red-eyed vireo — 
the ''preacher" — of the rose-breasted grosbeak, and of the 
scarlet tanagers, which look like flames of living fire. In 
the autumn the blue-jay and the red squirrel quarrel in 
the beech top, while the chipmunk and the little deer- 
mouse lay up their winter supply from the stores at its 
feet. And in the cold October nights, when the leaves have 
fallen, last, but not least, comes the raccoon to feast upon 
the beech harvest that lies buried among the fallen leaves; 
for, alas ! the bark is too smooth for this black-faced, ring- 
tailed rascal to climb without danger, and he is forced to 
content himself with what has fallen below. 

Half-way up the hill is a basswood, or linden, which the 
boys love for its soft, light wood, and which the wasps and 
bees love still better for its store of honeyed sweets. I 
remember seeing a beautiful specimen on one occasion in 
a secluded bit of woodland, in late June, when it was in 
full bloom. The air was heavy with its perfume, and the 
buzz and hum of insects in countless numbers filled the 
quiet woodland with a droning music, not unsuited to the 
warmth and drowsiness of a summer afternoon. The flowers 
of the basswood grow from a special little leaf or bract, 
which is a lighter green than the tree and gives it a pe- 
culiar variegated appearance. How cool and inviting in 
summer are its large, rounded, palm-like leaves ! But 
on this winter afternoon nothing remains but the smooth 
graceful trunk and limbs and tapering crown to remind 
me that there are, after all, other types of beauty than 
the dense and round-topped beech. 



70 



COUNTRY LIFE READEE 



As I reach the crest of the hill I find, standing on its 
very brow, a hardy, gnarled red oak. There is something 
in the gnarled appearance of the oak as seen from a dis- 
tance that proclaims its identity without closer acquain- 




A row of willows. 



tance; and the only question that ever presents itself is, 
what kind of oak is it? The white and the red are the 
most common, and both grow in rich, dry soil; but the 
red is taller, darker, and more compact than the white. 
Its leaves, moreover, have always thorny points, while 



THE TREES ON THE FARM 71 

those of the white oak are smooth. And if all other tests 
fail, a taste of the acorn will be sure to convince, for that 
of the red is bitter, while the acorn of the white is sweet 
and edible. 

In order to reach the road by which we may return home 
we must go down the opposite slope and cross the valley, 
through which runs a good-sized .creek. At a bend in the 
creek, close to the fallen tree by which I cross, there 
stands a group of weeping willows. The willows are not 
half so beautiful in winter as in summer, and as there 
are about one hundred and fifty varieties, it requires an 
expert to classify them. Most of the small willows are 
native, but the larger species have been introduced from 
Europe and the East. The weeping willow is one of these 
introduced varieties, and is a genuine willow of the East. 
It is called the weeping willow not only because its branches 
droop, but because of its association with the sorrows of 
the children of Israel in their captivity. 

^^By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we 
wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps 
upon the willows in the midst thereof.^'' 

It was a strange accident, too, that brought this beauti- 
ful Eastern tree into Europe and America for the first 
time. Less than two hundred years ago the poet Pope 
received a present of figs from Smyrna in Asia Minor, 
embedded in which was a small twig. Pope's curiosity 
was aroused, and he planted it. It grew and flourished, 
and became the ancestor of all the weeping willows in the 
Western world. 

Quite in contrast to the willow with its lithe and yet 
brittle twigs, is the trim little tree that I meet with at the 



72 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

edge of the fringe of wood as I cross the river valley on my 
return home. It is the hornbeam, or water-beech, which 
every country boy knows by the famihar name of ironwood. 
It is a small tree, scarcely a foot in diameter, and of slow 
growth; but, small as it is, I remember having with this 
very tree one of those experiences which a boy never for- 
gets. Coming along the edge of this Httle wood about 
dusk one summer evening, I saw a raccoon disappear into 
a hole at the bottom of the httle ironwood. The hole 
was not large, but large enough for a raccoon to squeeze 
into. I probed it with a stick. The tree was hollow for 
about four feet up, and the raccoon was at the top of the 
cavity. Every time I poked him with the stick he growled, 
but no amount of prodding would induce him to come 
down. I ht a fire at the mouth of the hole, but the smoke 
appeared only to have a soothing effect. I hammered on 
the tree, but nothing could dislodge him; and finaUy in 
the darkness I blocked up the mouth of the hole with a 
heavy stone and came away. In the morning the stone 
was still there, but my prison-house was empty. The 
prisoner had dug a hole under the roots of the tree on 
the other side and escaped. But from that time forward 
the Httle ironwood had a particular interest for me. 



Do not rob or mar the tree unless you really need 
what it has to give you. Let it stand and grow in virgin 
majesty, ungirdled and unscarred, while the trunk be- 
comes a firm pillar of the forest temple, and the branches 
spread abroad a refuge of bright green leaves for the 

birds of the air. 

Henry van Dyke. 



THE SNOW-STORM 

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores — 
Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
Rake.d down the herd's grass for the cows: 
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; 
And, sharply clashing horn on horn, 
Impatient down the stanchion rows 
The cattle shake their walnut bows: 
While, peering from his early perch 
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
The cock his crested helmet bent 
And down his querulous challenge sent. 

Unwarmed by any sunset light 
The gray day darkened into night, 
A night made hoary with the swarm 
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
As zigzag wavering to and fro 
Crossed and recrossed the winged snow: 
And ere the early bed-time came 
The white drift piled the window-frame. 
And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 
So all night long the storm roared on: 
The morning broke without a sun; 
In starry flake, and pellicle. 
All day the hoary meteor fell; 
73 



74 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a world unknown, 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the ghstening wonder bent 

The blue walls of the firmament. 

No cloud above, no earth below — 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old famihar sights of ours 

Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers 

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. 

Or garden wall, or belt of w^ood; 

A smooth white mound the brush pile showed, 

A fenceless drift what once was road; 

The bridle-post an old man sat 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof, 

In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 

Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive man, no breath 

Our father wasted: ''Boys, a path !" 

Well pleased (for when did farmer boy . 

Count such a summons less than joy ?) 

Our buskins on our feet we drew; 

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, 
To guard our necks and ears from snow, 

We cut the solid whiteness through. 

And, where the drift was deepest, made 

A tunnel walled and overlaid 

With dazzling crystal: we had read 



THE SNOW-STORM 75 

Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, 
And to our own his name we gave, 
With many a wish the luck were ours 
To test his lamp's supernal powers. 
We reached the barn with merry din 
And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
The old horse thrust his long head out, 
And grave with wonder gazed about; 
The cock his lusty greeting said. 
And forth his speckled harem led; 
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, 
And mild reproach of hunger looked. 

All day the gusty north wind bore 
The loosening drift its breath before; 
Low circling round its southern zone. 
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 
No church bell lent its Christian tone 
To the savage air, no social smoke 
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 

As night drew on, and, from the crest 
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
We piled, with care, our nightly stack 
Of wood against the chimney-back — 
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
And on its top the stout back-stick; 
The knotty forestick laid apart. 
And filled between with curious art 



76 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

The ragged brush; then, hovering near, 
We watched the first red blaze appear, 
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
Until the old, rude-furnished room 
Burst, flower-Hke, into rosy bloom; 
V/hile radiant with a mimic flame 
Outside the sparkling drift became. 
And through the bare-boughed lilac tree 
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 

Shut in from all the world without. 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door. 
While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat; 
And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed; 
The house-dog on his paws outspread, 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head. 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 
And, for the winter fireside meet, 
Between the andiron's straddling feet, 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row. 
And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 



THE SNOW-STORM 

What matter how the night behaved? 
What matter how the north wind raved ? 
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



77 




The whirl-dance of the blinding storm. 




Breaking out the road. 



A VISIT TO THE FARM 

"There's our bells," cried Thomas Finch, as the deep, 
musical boom of the Finches' sleigh-bells came through 
the bush. "Come on, Hughie, we'll get them at the 
cross." And, followed by Hughie and the boys from the 
north, he set off for the north cross-roads where they would 
meet the Finches' bob-sleighs coming empty from the saw- 
mill, to the great surprise and unalloyed dehght of Mr. 
and Mrs. Bushy, who, from their crotch in the old beech, 
had watched with some anxiety the boys' unusual con- 
duct. 

"There they are, Hughie," called Thomas, as the 
sleighs came out into the open at the cross-roads. "They'll 
wait for lis. They know you're coming," he yelled encour- 
agingly; for the big boys had left the smaller ones, a 
panting train, far in the rear, and were pihng themselves 
upon the Finches' sleighs with never a "by your leave" to 
WilHam John — famiharly known as Billy Jack — Thomas's 
eldest brother, who drove the Finches' team.. 

78. 



A VISIT TO THE FARM 79 

Thomas's home lay a mile north and another east from 
the Twentieth cross-roads; but the winter road by which 
they hauled sawlogs to the mill cut right through the 
forest, where the deep snow packed hard into a smooth 
track, covering roots and logs and mud-holes, and making 
a perfect surface for the sleighs, however heavily loaded, 
except where here and there the pitch-holes, or ca/iois, 
came. These cahots, by the way, though they became, 
especially toward the spring, a serious annoyance to team- 
sters, only added another to the delights that a sleigh-ride 
held for the boys. 

To Hughie the ride this evening was blissful to an un- 
speakable degree. He was overflowing with new sensa- 
tions. He was going to spend the night with Thomas, 
for one thing, and Thomas as his host was quite a new 
and different person from the Thomas of the school. 
The minister's wife, ever since the' examination day, had 
taken a deeper interest in Thomas, and determined that 
something should be made out of the solemn, solid, slow- 
moving boy. Partly for this reason she had yielded to 
Hughie's eager pleading, backing up the invitation brought 
by Thomas himself, and delivered in an agony of red-faced 
confusion, that Hughie should be allowed to go home 
with him for the night. Partly, too, because she was 
glad that Hughie should see something of the Finches' 
home, and especially of the dark-faced, dark-eyed little 
woman who so silently and unobtrusively, but so effi- 
ciently, administered her home, her family, and their 
affairs, and especially her husband, without suspicion on 
his part that anything of the kind was being done. 

In addition to the joy that Hughie had in Thomas in 



8o COUNTRY LIFE READER 

his new role as host, this winter road was full of wonder 
and delight, as were all roads and paths that wound right 
through the heart of the bush. The regular made-up 
roads, with the forest cut back beyond the ditches at the 
sides, were a great weariness to Hughie, except, indeed, 
in the spring-time, when these ditches were running full 
with sunHt water over the mottled clay bottom and 
gravelly ripples. But the bush roads and paths, summer 
and winter, were filled with things of wonder and of 
beauty, and this particular winter road of the Finches' was 
best of all to Hughie, for it was quite new to him, and, 
besides, it led right through the mysterious big cedar swamp 
and over the butternut ridge, beyond which lay the Finches' 
farm. Balsam trees, tamarack, spruce, and cedar made up 
the thick underbrush of the big swamp; white birch, 
white ash, and black were thickly sprinkled through it; 
but high above these lesser trees towered the white pines, 
lifting their great, tufted crests in lonely grandeur, seeming 
like kings among meaner men. Here and there the rabbit 
runways, packed into hard little paths, crossed the road 
and disappeared under the thick spruces and balsams; 
here and there the sly single track of the fox, or the deep 
hoof-mark of the deer, led off into unknown depths on 
either side. Hughie, sitting up on the bolster of the front 
bob beside Billy Jack, for even the big boys recognized 
his right, as Thomas's guest, to that coveted place, hstened 
with eager face and wide-open eyes to Billy Jack's remarks 
upon the forest and its strange people. 

One thing else added to Hughie's keen enjoyment of the 
ride. Billy Jack's bays were always in the finest of fettle, 
and pulled hard on the lines, and were rarely allowed the 



A VISIT TO THE FARM 8i 

rapture of a gallop. But when the swamp was passed 
and the road came to the more open butternut ridge, Billy 
Jack shook the lines over their backs and let them out. 
Their response was superb to witness, and brought Hughie 
some moments of ecstatic rapture. Along the hard-packed 
road that wound about among the big butternuts the rangy 
bays sped at a flat gallop, bounding clear over the cahots, 
the booming of the bells and the ratthng of the chains 
furnishing an exhilarating accompaniment to the swift, 
swaying motion, while the children clung for dear life to 
the bob-sleighs and to each other. It was all Billy Jack 
could do to get his team down to a trot by the time they 
reached the clearing, for there the going was perilous, and, 
besides, it was just as well that his father should not wit- 
ness any signs on Billy Jack's part of the folly that he was 
inclined to attribute to the rising generation. So steadily 
enough the bays trotted up the lane and between long 
lines of green cordwood on one side, and a haystack on the 
other, into the yard and, swinging round the big straw- 
stack that faced the open shed and was flanked on the 
right by the cow-stable and hog-pen and on the left by 
the horse-stable, came to a full stop at their own stable 
door. 

'' Thomas, you take Hughie into the house to get warm, 
tin I unhitch," said Billy Jack, with the feeling that 
courtesy to the minister's son demanded this attention. 
But Hughie, rejecting this proposition with scorn, pushed 
Thomas aside and set himself to unhitch the S-hook on the 
outside trace of the nigh bay. It was one of Hughie's griev- 
ances, and a very sore point with him, that his father's 
people would insist on treating him in the privileged 



82 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

manner they thought proper to his father's son, and his 
chief ambition was to stand upon his own legs and to 
fare Hke other boys. So he scorned Billy Jack's sug- 
gestion, and while some of the children scurried about 
the stacks for a little romp before setting off for their 
homes, which some of them for the sake of the ride had 
left far behind, Hughie devoted himself to the unhitch- 
ing of the team with Billy Jack. And so quick was he in 
his movements and so fearless of the horses, that he had 
his side unhitched and was strugghng with the breast- 
strap before Billy Jack had finished with his horse. 

'^Man! you're a regular farmer," said Billy Jack ad- 
miringly, ''only you're too quick for the rest of us." 

Hughie, still strugghng with the breast-strap, found 
his heart swell with pride. To be a farmer was his present 
dream. 

"But that's too heavy for you," continued Billy Jack. 
"Here, let down the tongue first." 

"Pshaw!" said Hughie, disgusted at his exhibition of 
ignorance; "I knew that tongue ought to come out first, 
but I forgot." 

"Oh, well, it's just as good that way, but not quite so 
easy," said Billy Jack with doubtful consistency. 

It took Hughie but a few minutes after the tongue was 
let down to unfasten his end of the neck-yoke and the 
cross-hnes, and he was beginning at his hame-strap, al- 
ways a difficult buckle, when Billy Jack called out: "Hold 
on there ! You're too quick for me. We'll make them 
carry their own harness into the stable. Don't beheve 
in making a horse of myself." Billy Jack was something 
of a humorist. 



A VISIT TO THE FARM 8^ 

The Finch homestead was a model of finished neatness. 
Order was its law. Outside, the stables, barns, stacks, 
the very wood-piles evidenced that law. Within, the 
house and its belongings and affairs were perfect in their 
harmonious arrangement. The whole establishment, with- 
out and within, gave token of the unremitting care of one 
organizing mind, for, from dark to dark, while others 
might have their moments of rest and careless ease, ''the 
little mother,'' as Billy Jack called her, was ever on guard, 
and all the machinery of house and farm moved smoothly 
and to purpose because of that unsleeping care. She 
was last to bed and first to stir, and Billy Jack declared 
that she used to put the cats to sleep at night and waken 
up the roosters in the morning. And through it all her 
face remained serene, and her voice flowed in quiet 
tones. 

Besides the law of order another law ruled in the Finch 
household — the law of work. The days were filled with 
vv^ork, for they each had their share to do and bore the sole 
responsibility for its being well done. If the cows failed 
in their milk, or the fat cattle were not up to the mark, 
the father felt the reproach as his; to Billy Jack fell the 
care and handling of the horses; Thomas took charge of 
the pigs and the getting of wood and water for the house; 
little Jessac had her daily task of "sorting the rooms," 
and when the days were too stormy or the snow too deep 
for school she had in addition her stint of knitting or of 
winding the yarn for the weaver. To the mother fell 
all the rest. At the cooking and the cleaning, and the 
making and mending, all fine arts with her, she diligently 
toiled from long before dawn till after all the rest were 



84 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

abed. But besides these and other daily household duties, 
there were, in their various seasons, the jam and jelly, 
the pumpkin and squash preserves, the butter-making 
and cheese-making, and, more than all, the long, long work 
with the wool. Billy Jack used to say that the Httle 
mother followed that w^ool from the backs of her sheep 
to the backs of her family, and hated to let the weaver 
have his turn at it. 

But, though Hughie, of course, knew nothing of this toil- 
ing and moihng, he was distinctly conscious of an air of 
tidiness and comfort and quiet, and was keenly alive to the 
fact that there was a splendid supper waiting him when 
he got in from the stables with the others — ''hungry as a 
wildcat," as Billy Jack expressed it. And that was a 
supper ! Fried ribs of fresh pork, and hashed potatoes, 
hot and brown, followed by buckwheat pancakes, hot and 
brown, with maple syrup. There was tea for the father 
and mother with their oat-cakes, but for the children no 
such luxury, only the choice of buttermilk or sweet milk. 
Hughie, it is true, was offered tea, but he promptly declined; 
for, though he loved it well enough, it was sufficient reason 
for him that Thomas had none. It took, however, all the 
grace out of his declining that Mr. Finch remarked in grufif 
pleasantry: ''What would a boy want with tea!" The 
supper was a very solemn meal. They were all too busy 
to talk, at least so Hughie felt, and as for himself he was 
only afraid lest the others should "push back" before he 
had satisfied the terrible craving within him. 

Before bed- time Billy Jack took dow^n the tin lantern, 
pierced with holes into curious patterns, through which the 
candle-light rayed forth, and went out to bed the horses. 



A VISIT TO THE FARM 85 

In spite of protests from all the family, Ilughie set forth 
with him, carrying the lantern and feeling very much the 
farmer, while Billy Jack took two pails of boiled oats and 
barley, with a mixture of flaxseed, which was supposed 
to give the Finches' team their famous and superior gloss. 
When they returned from the stable they found in the 
kitchen Thomas, who was rubbing a composition of tal- 
low and beeswax into his boots to make them waterproof, 
and the mother, who was going about setting the table 
for the breakfast. 

''Too bad you have to go to bed, mother," said Billy 
Jack, struggling with his bootjack. ''You might just go 
on getting the breakfast, and what a fine start that would 
give you for the day!" 

"You hurry, WiUiam John, to bed with that poor lad. 
What would his mother say ? He must be fairly exhausted." 
"I'm not a bit tired," said Hughie brightly, his face 
radiant with the delight of his new experiences. 

"You will need all your sleep, my boy," said the mother 
kindly, "for we rise early here. But," she added, "you 
will lie till the boys are through with their work and Thomas 
will waken you for your breakfast." 

"Indeed, no ! I'm going to get up," announced Hughie. 

It seemed to Hughie that he had hardly dropped off to 

sleep when he was awake again to see Thomas standing 

beside him with a candle in his hand, announcing that 

breakfast was ready. 

"Have you been out to the stable?" he eagerly inquired, 
and Thomas nodded. In great disappointment and a 
little shamefacedly he made his appearance at the break- 
fast-table. 



A VISIT TO THE FARM 87 

It seemed to Hughie as if it must be still the night be- 
fore, for it was quite dark outside. He had never had 
breakfast by candle-light before in his life, and he felt as 
if it all were still a part of his dreams, until he found him- 
self sitting beside Billy Jack on a load of sawlogs, waving 
good-bye to the group at the door. 

As Hughie was saying his good-byes Billy Jack's horses 
were pawing. to be off and rolHng their solemn bells, while 
their breath rose in white clouds above their heads, wreath- 
ing their manes in hoary rime. 

''Git-ep, lads," said Billy Jack, hauling his lines taut 
and flourishing his whip. The bays straightened their 
backs, hung for a few moments on their tugs, for the load 
had frozen fast during the night, and then moved off at 
a smart trot, the bells solemnly booming out and the 
sleighs creaking over the frosty snow. 

''Man!" said Hughie enthusiastically. ''I wish I could 
draw logs all winter." 

''It's not too bad a job on a day like this," assented 
Billy Jack. And, indeed, any one might envy him the 
work on such a morning. Over the tree tops the rays of 
the sun were beginning to shoot their rosy darts up into 
the sky, and to flood the clearing with light that sparkled 
and shimmered upon the frost particles, ghttering upon 
and glorifying snow^ and trees, and even the stumps and 
fences. Around the clearing stood the forest, dark and 
still, except for the frost reports that now and then rang 
out like pistol shots. To Hughie the early morning in- 
vested the forest with a new beauty and a new wonder. 
The dim Hght of the dawning day deepened the silence, so 
that involuntarily he hushed his voice in speaking, and 



88 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

the deep-toned roll of the sleigh-bells seemed to smite upon 
that dim, solemn quiet with startKng blows. On either 
side the balsams and spruces, wath their mantles of snow, 
stood like white-swathed sentinels on guard — silent, motion- 
less, alert. Hughie looked to see them move as the team 
drove past. 

As they left the more open butternut ridge and descended 
into the depths of the big swamp the dim light faded 
into deeper gloom, and Hughie felt as if he were in church, 
and an awe gathered upon him. 

''It's awful still," he said to Billy Jack in a low tone, 
and Billy Jack, catching the look in the boy's face, checked 
the light word upon his lips, and gazed around into the 
deep forest glooms with new eyes. The mystery and won- 
der of the forest had never struck him before. It had 
hitherto been to him a place for hunting or for getting big 
sawlogs. But to-day he saw it with Hughie's eyes and 
felt the majesty of its beauty and silence. For a long time 
they drove without a word. 

''Say, it's mighty fine, isn't it?" he said, adopting 
Hughie's low tone. 

^'Splendid!" exclaimed Hughie. "My! I could just 
hug those big trees. They look at me like — hke your 
mother, don't they, or mine?" But this was beyond 
Billy Jack. 

"Like my mother?" 

"Yes, you know, quiet and — and — kind, and nice." 

"Yes," said Thomas, breaking in for the first time, 
" that's just it. They do look, sure enough, like my mother 
and yours. They have both got that look." 

" Git-ep ! " said Billy Jack to his team. "These fellows'll 



A VISIT TO THE FARM 



89 



be ketchin' something bad if we don't get into the open 
soon. Shouldn't wonder if they've got 'em already, mak- 
ing out their mothers like an old white pine. Git-ep, I 



say 



I" 



Ralph Connor. 





Among the balsams and spruces. 




The Black Minorca rooster. 



A BARN-YARD MEETING 

Nine o'clock on a snowy winter morning! At farmer 
Walters' home the path was not yet broken down to the 
barn, and in the farmhouse itself there were no signs of 
Hfe. It was plain that the morning chores had not yet 
been done and the animals had not yet been fed. 

But down at the barn-yard there was an unusual stir. 
The black Minorca rooster, mounted on top of a snow- 
covered strawstack, was pealing forth a lusty summons: 

"A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!" 

"A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!" 

And at this clarion call all the doors of the stables, the 
poultry-house, and the great barn itself began to open up, 

go 



A BARN-YARD MEETING 91 

and as if by common consent the farmyard animals — 
horses, cows, pigs, sheep, turkeys, geese, ducks, hens 
— came trooping forth into the barn-yard to the foot 
of the strawstack, which was the appointed place of 
meeting. 

*'A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!" 

*'A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!" 
sang chanticleer from the top of the stack, but still there 
were no signs of stir or life at the farmhouse. 

When at last the farm animals were all assembled, the 
black Minorca came down from his station on the straw- 
stack, and, at a call for silence from the bronze turkey 
gobbler, every one knew that the meeting was about to 
open. There was no need to explain why the meeting 
was called; for these barn-yard gatherings were never 
held except to discuss farmyard grievances, and it was 
only a question as to who should begin. But as it was 
Mrs. Brindle who usually had most to say on these oc- 
casions, it was agreed that she should be permitted to 
speak first. From what Mrs. Brindle had to say it was 
easy to see that she was in a very cross and ugly mood. 
She had not been milked the night before, her stall had 
not been cleaned, and, worse than all, she had not been 
properly watered and fed. 

Mrs. Brindle's speech was interrupted at least half a 
dozen times by Mrs. Jersey, Mrs. Holstein, and Mrs. 
Ayrshire, who declared, one and all, that they would go 
dry if this thing happened many times more. 

"I object to these irregular hours for milking, too," 
continued Mrs. Brindle. ^'Here it is after nine to-day 
and I was milked at half past seven yesterday morning. 



92 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Why don't they get a time and stick to it? I am sure I 
should give more milk if they did." 

"It's bad enough to have the dog set on you/' said Mrs. 
Ayrshire, ''and to be milked by a green farm-hand, but 
when it comes to being shut up in a dirty stable with no 
light and no fresh air " 

''They don't give me enough water," interrupted Mrs. 
Holstein. "I suppose they think I'm made of milk. If 
things don't change around this farm I will go dry." 

"Serve 'em right! Serve 'em right!" added Mr. Dur- 
ham in a deep bass voice. "I want my breakfast." 

Mr. Grunter and Mrs. Razorback began to talk at the 
same time, and it was rather hard to make out what they 
both had to say, but Mr. Grunter was objecting to his pen 
not being cleaned, while Mrs. Razorback kept on grum- 
bhng about the muddy water that she was given to drink." 

"I'd keep myself clean," said Mr. Grunter, "if only 
they'd give me a chance. If I only had a clean straw bed 
you wouldn't catch me out here on a cold morning like 
this." 

At this Mrs. Razorback began to shiver with the cold, 
and as soon as she could escape observation she withdrew 
to the shelter of the strawstack and buried herself in the 
straw. 

Mrs. Bay and Mrs. Gray and young Miss Filly were 
all of the same opinion. No attention, they claimed, was 
ever given to their comfort or their personal appearance. 

"You've only to look at us," complained Miss Filly, 
''to see how we are treated. My coat hasn't been brushed 
for the last month. Nobody ever grooms us and no one 
cares how we look." 



A BARN-YARD MEETING 



93 



"Humph!" interrupted young Mr. Thoroughbred. 
"That's nothing! How would you hke to be left without 
a blanket, and have a frozen bit put into your mouth, 




The bronze turkey gobbler. 

and get nothing but ice- water to drink? When I come in 
from work no one ever gives me a rub-down, and as for 
oats " 

"Oats!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Bay and old 
Mr. Clydesdale in a single breath. "Did you say OATS?" 

At this the ducks set up a fearful quacking, for none of 
them had been fed, until the black Minorca rooster 
climbed up on the ladder that leaned against the stack, 
and shouted: 

"This will never d-o-o-o!" 

"This will never d-o-o-o!" 
and order was restored once again. 

The bronze turkey gobbler spoke next, but, as usual, 
he would talk of nothing but the loss of his family last 



Q4 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



Thanksgiving; at which Mrs. Razorback, who had re- 
cently lost her whole family, came out from under the 
straw and set up such a squealing that not a syllable more 
of his story could be heard. 

Then the black Minorca chickens began to chatter 
all at once, and from what you could make out of their 

talk it was all about sunshine, 
and fresh air, and good nesting- 
places, and clean perches, and 
proper food, until, having fairly 
talked themselves out of breath, 
the black Minorca rooster de- 
clared that none of his family 
would lay another egg until 
they were better treated. 

Just at this moment the 
kitchen door of the farm-house 
opened, and the hired man 
came out to get an armful of 
wood for kindling. At this all 
the animals in the barn-yard set up such a lowing and 
squeahng and whinnying and cackling that even the black 
Minorca could not be heard as he mounted the strawstack 
once more to declare that the meeting was adjourned. 

^'Just listen to those animals," said Mrs. Walters as 
she put up the bed-room blind. ''I never heard such a 
clatter. Whatever can be the matter with them ? One 
would think, to listen to them, that they had never been 
fed!" 




Mrs. Jersey. 




Feed me, water, and care for me. 



THE HORSE'S PRAYER 



To thee, my master, I offer my prayer: Feed me, water, 
and care for me, and, when the day's work is done, pro- 
vide me with shelter, a clean, dry bed, and a stall wide 
enough for me to lie down in comfort. 

Always be kind to me. Talk to me. Your voice often 
means as much to me as the reins. Pet me sometimes, 
that I may serve you the more gladly and learn to love 
you. Do not jerk the reins, and do not whip me when go- 
ing uphill. Never strike, beat, or kick me when I do not 
understand what you want, but give me a chance to under- 
stand you. Watch me, and if I fail to do your bidding, 
see if something is not wrong with my harness or feet. 

Do not check me so that I cannot have the free use of 
my head. If you insist that I wear blinders, so that I 
cannot see behind me as it was intended I should, I pray 

95 



96 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

you be careful that the bhnders stand well out from my 
eyes. 

Do not overload me, or hitch me where water will drip 
on me. Keep me well shod. Examine my teeth when I 
do not eat, I may have an ulcerated tooth, and that, you 
know, is very painful. Do not tie my head in an un- 
natural position, or take away my best defence against 
flies and mosquitoes by cutting off my tail. 

I cannot tell you when I am thirsty, so give me clean, 
cool water often. Save me, by all means in your power, 
from that fatal disease — the glanders. I cannot tell you 
in words when I am sick; so watch me, that by signs you 
may know my condition. Give me all possible shelter 
from the hot sun, and put a blanket on me, not when I 
am working but when I am standing in the cold. Never 
put a frosty bit in my mouth; first warm it by holding it 
a moment in your hands. 

I try to carry you and your burdens without a murmur, 
and wait patiently for you long hours of the day or night. 
Without the power to choose my shoes or path, I some- 
times fall on the hard pavements which I have often prayed 
might not be of wood but of such a nature as to give me 
a safe and sure footing. Remember that I must be ready 
at any moment to lose my life in your service. 

And, finally, O my master, when my useful strength is 
gone, do not turn me out to starve or freeze, or sell me to 
some cruel owner, to be slowly tortured and starved to 
death; but do thou, my master, take my life in the kind- 
est way, and your God will reward you here and hereafter. 
You will not consider me irreverent if I ask this in the 
name of Him who was born in a stable. Amen. 




His large stock demand regular attention. 



IN PIONEER DAYS 



Whatever may be said about the enjoyments of winter 
life, there are few who really enjoy it so much as the farmer. 
His cares, however, are very numerous and his work is 
varied and laborious. His large stock demand regular 
attention and must be fed morning and night. The grain 
has to be threshed, for his cattle need the straw, and the 
grain has to be got out for market. But in the early pio- 
neer days, threshing-machines were unknown. So, day 
after day, the farmer was forced to hammer away with the 
flail or spread the grain on the barn floor to be trampled 
out with horses. His muscular arm was the only machine 
he had to rely upon; and if it did not accompHsh much, 
it succeeded in doing its work well and provided for all his 

97 



98 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

modest wants. Then the fanning-mill came into play to 
clean the grain, after which it was carried to the granary, 
whence again it was taken either to the mill or to the 
market. 

Winter was also the time to get out the logs from the 
woods and to haul them to the mill. The sawmill was 
a small rough structure; and it had but one upright saw, 
which did not turn out a very large quantity of stuff. 
Rails also had to be spHt and drawn to where new fences 
were wanted or where old ones needed repairs. Flour, 
beef, mutton, butter, apples, and a score of other things 
had to be taken to market and disposed of. 

Early in the spring, before the snow had gone, the sugar- 
making time came. Now, too, the hams and beef had to 
be taken from the casks and hung in the smoke-house. 
The spring work crowded on rapidly. Ploughing, fencing, 
sowing, and planting followed in quick succession. All 
hands were busy. The younger children had to drive 
the cows to pasture in the morning and bring them up at 
night. They had also to take a hand at the old churn; 
and it was a weary task, as I remember well, to stand for 
an hour perhaps and drive the dasher up and down through 
the thick cream. How often the handle was examined to 
see if there were any indications of butter, and what satis- 
faction there was in getting over with it! 

As soon as my legs were long enough I had to follow a 
team; and I was mounted on the back of one of the horses 
when my nether limbs were hardly sufficient in length to 
hold me to my seat. The implements then in use were 
very rough. Iron ploughs were generally used; and when 
compared with the ploughs of to-day they were clumsy 



IN PIONEER DAYS 99 

things. They had but one handle, but, though difficult to 
guide, were a great advance over the old wooden plough, 
which had not yet altogether gone out of use. Tree tops 
were frequently used for drags. Riding a horse in the field, 
as I frequently had to do under a hot sun, was not so agree- 
able as it might seem. 

In June came sheep- washing. The sheep were driven 
to the bay shore and secured in a pen. Then one by one 
they were taken into the bay and their fleeces were care- 
fully washed. In a few days they were brought to the barn 
and sheared. The wool was then sorted; some of it was 
retained to be carded by hand, and the remainder was sent 
to the mill to be turned into rolls; and when they were 
brought home the hum of the spinning-wheel was heard 
day after day for weeks. Of course, the quaHty of the 
cloth depended upon the fineness and evenness of the 
thread, and a great deal of pains was taken to turn out good 
work. When the spinning was done, the yarn was taken 
away to the weaver to be made into cloth. 

Early in July the haying began. The mowers were ex- 
pected to be in the meadow by sunrise. All through the 
day the rasp of their whetstones could be heard; and as 
they went swinging across the field, the waving grass fell 
rapidly before their keen blades and dropped in swaths 
at their side. The days were not then divided off into a 
stated number of working hours. The rule was to com- 
mence with the morning light and continue as long as one 
could see. No sound was more welcome than the blast of 
the old tin dinner-horn. Even Old Gray, when I followed 
the plough, used to give answer to the cheerful wind of the 
horn by a loud whinny, and stop in the furrow, as if to 



lOO COUNTRY LIFE READER 

say: ''There, now, off with my harness and let us to din- 
ner." If I happened to be in the middle of the field I had 
considerable trouble to get the old fellow to go on to the 
end. 

As soon as the sun was well up, we followed up the 
swaths and spread them out nicely with a fork or a long 
stick so that the grass would dry. In the afternoon it had 
to be raked up into windrows, work in which the girls often 
joined us; and after tea one or two of the men cocked it 
up, while we raked the ground clean after them. If the 
weather was clear and dry, the hay was sometimes left out 
for several days before it was drawn into the barn to be 
stacked. 

Another important matter was the preparation of the 
summer fallow for fall wheat. The ground was first 
broken up after the spring sowing was over; about hay time 
the second ploughing had to be done to destroy weeds 
and get the land into proper order; in August the last 
ploughing came; and about the ist of September the 
wheat was sown. It almost always happened, too, that 
there were some acres of woodland which had to be cleaned 
up. Logs and brush were collected into piles and burned. 
Then the timber was cut down and ruthlessly given over 
to the fire. When logging-bees were held, the neighbors 
turned out with their oxen and logging chains and, amid 
the ring of the axe, the shouting of drivers, and the noise 
of the men with their handspikes, the great logs were 
rolled up, one upon another, and left for the fire to eat 
them out of the way. 

In August the wheat-fields were ready for the reapers. 
A good cradler would cut about five acres a day, and an 



IN PIONEER DAYS loi 

expert with the rake would follow and bind up what he cut. 
There were men who would literally walk through the 
grain with a cradle, and then two were required to follow. 
After the wheat was cut, the younger members of the 
family came in for their share of work both in shocking 
and in hauling in the grain, and again the girls often gave 
a helping hand both in the field and in the barn. 

In all these tasks good work was expected. My father 
was a pushing man and thorough in all he undertook. 
His motto was, ''Anything that is worth doing, is worth 
doing well," and this rule was always enforced. The 
ploughmen had to throw their furrows neat and straight. 
When I got to be a strong lad I could strike a furrow across 
a field as straight as an arrow, and took pride in throwing 
my furrows in uniform precision. The mowers had to 
shear the land close and smooth. The rakers threw their 
windrows straight, and the men placed their haycocks at 
equal distances; and so in the grain-field the stubble had to 
be cut clean and even and the sheaves shocked in straight 
rows, with ten sheaves to the shock. It was really a plea- 
sure to inspect his fields when the work was done. 

Canniff Haight (adapted). 



Thank God every morning when you get up that you 
have something to do that day which must be done, 
whether you like it or not. Being forced to work and 
forced to do your best will breed in you temperance and 
self-control, diligence and strength of will, cheerfulness 
and content, and a hundred virtues which the idle will 
never know. 

Charles Kingsley, 



THE CAMPAIGN 

(Continued) 

During the winter months the besieging armies were 
forced to take shelter in their intrenchments, and very 
Httle fighting took place. Dick wished to carry on a 
campaign against the house-sparrows, but General Ben 
did not think it wise to use firearms within the grounds of 
the fort. 

"The army of sparrows," he argued, ''are not so danger- 
ous as some of our other enemies, and perhaps when the 
spring comes we can hold them in check by destroying 
their shelters wherever we find them. Besides," he added, 
''General Screech-Owl is one of the best of our alHes, and 
I think that for this winter, at least, perhaps we had better 
leave the sparrows to him." 

"But," urged Milton, "the worst of it is that when the 
spring comes and we want to fight the weeds and insects, 
this army of sparrows will keep some of our best alKes, 
such as the wrens and the bluebirds, from helping us. 
Is there no way for us to get rid of them?" 

"If they trouble us too much," rephed General Ben, 
"about the only thing for us to do is to try to get the 
soldiers in all the other forts in the country to join with us 
and try to destroy them all. If they trouble our allies too 
much in the spring, perhaps we shall do that next winter." 

During the winter Nora took pains to find out all she 
could about the army of house-flies, and early in the spring, 
before the advance guard of the enemy had arrived, the 
season's campaign had already been carefully planned. 



THE CAMPAIGN 103 

From the figures which Nora suppHed, General Ben had 
the boys make a calculation to show the natural increase 
in the numbers of the enemy during a single season; and 
they were greatly surprised to learn that a single female 
fly who hatches out a first brood early in the season has 
at least twenty-five million descendants in the course of 
the year. 

''Better begin early/' said General Ben. "For every 
one of the enemy that escapes you now means milHons 
later on. And remember that every one of General 
House-Fly's soldiers carries about upon his body thou- 
sands of poisonous germs which are almost sure to take 
disease into every farm camp that they enter. House- 
flies have been known to carry the germs of cholera, tuber- 
culosis, typhoid fever, and other diseases." 

And so, with the first appearance of the enemy in the 
warm days of early spring the campaign was begun. 
Within the fort itself Lieutenant Dick and Major Milton 
proved to be excellent "snipers," and whenever one of the 
enemy came out into the open he fell a victim to the 
"swatter," which was the newest form of weapon pur- 
chased by General Ben on his last visit to town. In ad- 
dition to this, General Ben supplied a complete range of 
fine-wire defences to cover the loopholes in the walls, and 
later in the season sticky-paper entanglements were pre- 
pared, in order to capture any of the invaders who might 
succeed in creeping in past the outer guards of the fort. 

But much more important than any of these measures 
were the means which General Ben took to prevent the 
enemy from raising new troops and bringing forward fresh 
reinforcements. 



I04 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

''The armies of General House-Fly," he explained, 
''feed upon refuse of all kinds, and every few days a fresh 
army is hatched forth from the waste material which is 
thrown out from the barn-yard forts. Where there are 
no forts and no refuse there are none of the enemy to be 
found. General Dirt is the greatest ally that General 
House-Fly has." 

And so throughout the spring and summer under the 
direction of General Ben the campaign was carried forward 
in both offensive and defensive form. The enemy was 
destroyed by every means possible, both within and with- 
out the fort. Dirt and refuse was not allowed to collect 
around the doorways. Covered cans were provided for 
garbage; the barn-yard forts were kept scrupulously clean; 
and at General Ben's suggestion a shed was constructed 
in which manure and other waste material from the barn- 
yard was kept, carefully screened in, until it could be 
hauled away. 

It would be too much to expect that in a campaign 
such as this, against an enemy that counted its fighters 
literally by milKons, not one of the enemy should escape; 
and in spite of the patience and diligence of General Ben 
and his alKes, the farm forts were never wholly free from 
attack. But Nora proudly boasted that not a single fly 
was allowed to remain in her part of the camp to poison 
the officers' food supplies; and General Ben and the boys 
had the satisfaction of knowing that in the barn-yard and 
outlying grounds of the forts, neither themselves nor the 
animals of the farm were subjected to the same annoyance 
as in former years. 



SPRING 




1 






A SONG OF SPRING 

Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God, 
thou art very great; thou art clothed with 
honor and majesty. 

Who coverest thyself with light as with a 
garment : who stretchest out the heavens like a 
curtain; 

Who layeth the beams of his chambers in 
the waters : who maketh the clouds his chariot : 
who walketh upon the wings of the wind. . . . 

He sendeth the springs into the valleys, 
which run among the hills. 

They give drink to every beast of the field: 
the wild asses quench their thirst. 

By them shall the fowls of the heaven have 
their habitation, which sing among the branches. 

He watereth the hills from his chambers: the 
earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works. 

He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, 
and herb for the service of man: that he may 
bring forth food out of the earth. . . . 

O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In 
wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is 
full of thy riches. 

Psalm 104. 




p} 



1^ 



^Ba>-^^^^:^'^^^^'^'^''^^>'^^-^=^^''^^^sy'^''-&^ 








The song-sparrow. 



THE SONG-SPARROW 

There is a bird I know so well, 
It seems as if he must have sung 
Beside my crib when I was young; 
Before I knew the way to spell 

The name of even the smallest bird, 
His gentle, joyful song I heard. 
Now see if you can tell, my dear, 
What bird it is that, every year. 
Sings ''Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Very merry cheer." 



He comes in March, when winds are strong, 
And snow returns to hide the earth; 

107 



io8 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

But still he warms his heart with mirth, 
And waits for May. He hngers long 
While flowers fade; and every day 
Repeats his small, contented lay; 
As if to say, we need not fear 
The seasons' change if love is here, 
With ''Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Very merry cheer.'' 



He does not wear a Joseph's coat 
Of many colors, smart and gay; 
His suit is Quaker brown and gray, 

With three dark patches at the throat. 
And yet, of all the well-dressed throng, 
Not one can sing so brave a song; 

It makes the pride of looks appear 

A vain and fooHsh thing, to hear 

His ''Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Very merry cheer.'* 

A lofty place he does not love. 

But sits by choice, and well at ease. 
In hedges, and in little trees 

That stretch their slender arms above 
The meadow-brook; and there he sings 
Till all the field with pleasure rings; 

And so he tells in every ear. 

That lowly homes to heaven are near, 

In "Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Very merry cheer/' 



THE SONG-SPARROW 



109 



I like the tune, I like the words; 

They seem so true, so free from art, 

So friendly, and so full of heart, 
That if but one of all the birds 

Could be my comrade everywhere — 

My little brother of the air — 
I'd choose the Song-Sparrow, my dear. 
Because he'd bless me every year, 
With ''Sweet — sweet — sweet — • 
Very merry cheer." 

Henry van Dyke. 




Nest of song- sparrow. 




Open ditch to take off surplus water. 



A WET FIELD 



Perhaps on your way to school you may have to pass a 
field which is very wet in spring. The farmer does not 
usually get to work on this field until late, when most of 
the seeding on other farms is done; and even then he can- 
not work the soil properly because it is too wet. But a 
few weeks of dry wxather come, and he gets his crop in 
at last. But it does not grow well, for the ground is still 



A WET FIELD ill 

SO wet that the air can not get at the roots; and besides 
this, the soil is cold and perhaps a little sour. Water does 
not heat nearly so quickly as air, and before the soil can 
become warm the water must be drained off and the 
surface of the ground must be broken up, so that the air 
may be able to penetrate the soil. 

But even if the crop in this particular field does get a 
good start in spring, it is hkely to suffer from the dry 
weather later in the summer. Just because the ground is 
wet in the spring, the roots have not had to go very far 
into the soil in search of water, and when the ground dries 
up in midsummer the roots at the surface are left without 
any moisture. If the ground had been dry in early spring 
the roots would have gone deep and would have had a 
good supply of moisture throughout the summer. 

There are two ways in which water may be drained off 
wet fields : either by open ditches or by tile-drains. Some- 
times the open ditch is sufficient to take off all the surplus 
water, but the tile-drain is usually better. The tiles are 
placed from three to four feet below the surface, and the 
drains are laid from four to eight rods apart, according 
to the nature of the soil. But the size of the tile, the 
depth at which it is laid, and the number of drains that 
are put down depend altogether on the kind of field that 
is to be drained. 




The skunk-cabbage is out very early. 



THE EARLY SPRING WILD FLOWERS 



There is a certain wooded hillside which I like to visit 
in early spring; for, as it faces the south, it gets the first 
bright rays of spring sunshine and the first warm April 
rains, so that the flowers seem to bloom here a little 
sooner than almost anywhere else". 

It is high and dry for the most part, but in a dip in the 
centre there are a number of springs, and at this point for 
a short distance the undergrowth is thick and the ground 
is wet and marshy. Along the edge of this marshy spot, 
even before the snow and ice have disappeared, I am 
sure to find the first skunk-cabbages of the season pushing 
through the frosty ground, and a few weeks later the 
swampy hillside is yellow with a profusion of marsh-mari- 
golds. Then I know it is time to look for the hepatica 
and the anemone and the spring-beauty on the dryer slopes 
of the hill, and that somewhere in the moist and sheltered 
hollows I may find the trillium and the bloodroot and the 
pretty little harbinger-of-spring. 



THE EARLY SPRING WILD FLOWERS 113 



Our first expedition in the spring, in early March, is in 
search of the skunk-cabbage, which has already pushed its 
way through the wet, frosty ground. There are no leaves 
as yet — only the tough, reddish, fleshy-looking cup, which 
is called a ^'spathe" and contains the flowers and protects 
them from the frost and 
cold. If you should ven- 
ture to examine one of 
these spathes you would 
find the flowers inside to 
be very small and not es- 
pecially interesting. But 
the spathe itself is at- 
tractive, for, coarse as it 
is, it has beautiful vein- 
ings of red, not to speak 
of its strong, ''skunky" 
smell, which no boy, after 
all, reafly disHkes. Both 
the red color and the 
strong, pungent odor 
help to attract the black 

meat-flies that carry the pollen from flower to flower. 
It is in the early spring that the skunk-cabbage appears 
to the best advantage; later in the season its leaves 
are large and conspicuous, but not especially attractive; 
and in the autumn, if you care to pick your way 
through the marsh to examine the cabbage itself, you 
win find it to be a piece of slimy, disagreeable pulp, 
with the coarse, round seeds curiously imbedded in its 
fleshy sides. 




Marsh-marigold. 



114 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



The skunk-cabbage is out very early; but it is generally 
the latter part of April before 

"The winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes." 

— for that is Shakespeare's way of telHng us that the 
marsh-marigolds are in bloom. How gorgeous they make 

the marshy hillside ap- 
pear, and is it any won- 
der that the children are 
tempted to go out in 
crowds to gather ''cow- 
slips," as they call them? 
But alas ! it means al- 
most without fail a pair 
of wet feet and then, per- 
haps, a scolding at home. 
And, besides, the mari- 
golds look more beautiful 
after all in the marsh, 
stretching away in bank 
after bank among the 
dead reeds and tangled 
undergrowth than they do 
in hand, for the stems are coarse and thick and the indi- 
vidual flowers are often disappointing. But there is some 
compensation at least in the fresh April sun, the beauti- 
ful soft blue of the sky, and the call of the red-winged 
blackbird as he flits like a flame of fire across the marsh. 
Even before the marsh-marigold has appeared, the 
hepatica, which is commonly spoken of as the earliest 




Anemone. 



THE EARLY SPRING WILD FLOWERS 115 



spring flower, may be found pushing up through the pro- 
tecting leaves on the sheltered hillside. It is strange that 
this delicate flower should appear before the leaves have 
ventured out; but it is perhaps not so bold as it appears 
at first sight, for if you look closely you will see that it 
has protected itself from 
the cold by a fine ''fur" 
coat of fuzzy hair. The 
leaves, too, you will find, 
like the flower, spring from 
the root, and this may 
help to explain why they 
are longer in coming. 
Practically all the early 
spring flowers are scent- 
less, and depend solely 
on their white or yellow 
color to attract the in- 
sects; but the hepatica is 
an exception and is the 
only one that is really 
fragrant. 

On the same hillside slope there is another common spring 
flower, which resembles the hepatica and which has a very 
beautiful name — the anemone, which in English means 
''windflower." No one is sure why it is called anemone. 
Perhaps it is because it flowers in the windy season, per- 
haps because it opens when the wind blows. At all events, 
the Gre'eks had a very pretty story connected with it. 
Venus, the goddess of love, was enamored of a beautiful 
youth, Adonis. He was slain in the 'chase of the wild 




Bloodroot. 



Ii6 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

boar. Venus wept for his loss, and wherever a tear fell a 
white anemone with a dehcate flush of pink sprang up to 
mark the spot. 

The most dehcate, and perhaps the most interesting, 
early spring flower is the bloodroot, which is found in 
moist, sheltered places among the undergrowth of the 
hillside. Nothing could be more lovely than the ten or 
twelve pure white petals, so dehcate that it takes scarcely 
more than a touch to make them fall. And how careful 
Mother Nature is to protect the beautiful blossom from the 
cold. The bloodroot has only one single leaf, which comes 
up first and curls around into a protecting sheath to guard 
the flower from sudden frost until it is strong enough to 
protect itself. But the most curious thing is that a plant 
with so delicate a blossom should have such red life-blood. 
Break the stalk off close to the root and note the blood- 
red stain that oozes out— so deep and enduring a red that 
the Indians in early times made use of it as '^war paint" 
for coloring their faces. 

But now the time has come for the trillium, the wake- 
robin, and the yellow adder's-tongue or dog's-tooth violet 
— all of them belonging to the lily family. The trilhum, or 
white hly, is the spring flower the boys and girls know best 
of all; but probably most of them prefer the wake-robin 
— the hly with the deep red color, that is supposed to 
bloom when the robin first returns. When I was a boy 
I used to think that this red lily was just the same as 
the white, only colored by the sun, like the cheeks of a 
red apple. But if I had been a better observer I should 
have noticed that the wake-robin stands up bold and 
erect, while the white lily droops, and that the red lily 



THE EARLY SPRING WILD FLOWERS 117 

has a disagreeable, sickening odor, while the white tril- 
Hum has no scent at all. It is supposed by some that the 
reddish color and the disagreeable smell are intended to 
attract the meat-flies. 

The yellow adder's-tongue, the third of the lily group, 
is generally found not far from the edge of a stream. Per- 
haps the most interesting thing about this flower is its 
trick of hanging its head — not for modesty, although it is 
modest — but so that the ants, who are unwelcome visitors 
because they carry away no pollen, may not be able to 
climb in and rob it of its store of sweets. Some people 
prefer to caU it the fawn lily or trout Hly because of its 
beautifully mottled leaves; but by whatever name we call 
it, it is one of the children's favorite flowers of spring; 
and for the children more than the rest of the world it 
seems as if the flowers were made. 




Trillium. 



Wake-robin 



THE LEGEND OF THE DANDELION 



The Angel of the flowers came down to earth once — 
long, long ago — and she wandered here and there, in field, 

and forest, and garden, to find 
the flower she loved the most. 
As she hurried on her search, 
she came upon a gay tulip, all 
orange and red, standing stiff 
and proud in a garden, and 
the Angel said to the tulip: 
*' Where should you like most 
of all to live?" 

"1 should like to live on a 
castle lawn in the velvety 
grass," said the tulip, ^' where 
my colors w^ould show against 
the gray castle walls. I should 
hke to have the princess touch 
me and tell me how beautiful I 
am." 

But the Angel turned away 
with sad eyes from the proud 
tulip, and spoke to the rose. 

''Where should you like most 

to live?" she asked the rose. 

Dandelion. ''I should like to climb the 

castle walls," said the rose, 

"for I am fragile, and delicate, and not able to climb of 

myself. I need help and shelter." 

ii8 




THE LEGEND OF THE DANDELION 119 

The Angel of the flowers turned sadly away from the 
rose, and hurried on until she came to the violet growing 
in the forest, and she said to the violet: ''Where should 
you like most of all to live?" 

''Here, in the woods, where I am hidden from every 
one," said the violet. "The brook cools my feet, and the 
trees keep the warm sun from spoiling my beautiful color." 
But the Angel turned away from the violet and went on, 
until she came to the sturdy, yellow dandehon growing 
in the meadow grass. 

"And where should you like most of all to live?" asked 
the Angel of the dandehon. 

"Oh," cried the dandehon, "I want to live wherever 
the happy children may find me when they run by to 
school, or romp and play in the fields. I want to five by 
the roadside, and in the meadows, and push up between 
the stones in the city yards, and make every one glad be- 
cause of my bright color." 

"You are the flower I love the most," said the Angel 
of the flowers, as she laid her hand upon the dandehon's 
curly, yellow head. "You shall blossom everywhere from 
spring till faH, and be the children's flower." 

That is why the dandehon comes so early and pushes 
her head up everywhere— by hedge, and field, and hut, 
and wall; and has such a long, sweet life. 

Carolyn S. Bailey. 



PREPARING THE SEED-BED 

Let us suppose that after the wheat has begun to grow 
you are able to take up a thin layer of soil a foot deep 
and put it under an immense magnifying glass. If the 
soil is in good condition you will see that it is composed 
of very many fine particles lying loosely together with air- 
spaces between them, and that the soil particles them- 
selves are filled with moisture. You would be surprised, 
if you could measure these air-spaces, to find that they 
take up more than one quarter as much space as the soil 
itself; and if you could measure the amount of moisture 
in the particles of the soil, you would find that the water 
would weigh, in most cases, about half as much as the 
soil. If there were no air-spaces the roots of the wheat 
plant would not grow, even if it were possible for them to 
force their way through the hard soil; and if there were 
no moisture the wheat could not grow, because it is only 
through the moisture that the plant can suck up its food 
from the ground. If, then, the farmer expects to have a 
good crop of wheat, he must prepare his seed-bed in such 
a way that the proper air-spaces will be provided and 
that the soil will hold the proper amount of moisture. 

The first step in the preparation of the seed-bed, we 
have already seen, is to provide it with a sufficient amount 
of humus in the form of manure or vegetable matter to 
enrich the soil and to make it porous; and the next step 
is to cultivate it with plough and harrow in such a way 



PREPARING THE SEED-BED 



121 



that the soHd lumps of earth shall be broken up into fine, 
loose particles and exposed to the sun and air. 

Before ploughing the ground for the seed-bed the 
farmer must decide how deep it shall be. All things con- 




Breaking the soil with a disk harrow. 



sidered, a deep seed-bed is generally better than a shallow 
one; for the roots of wheat and other plants are seldom 
able to penetrate into the harder soil beneath, and if the 
seed-bed is shallow the roots will have less food and mois- 
ture, and the soil will dry out more quickly in the hot sun. 
But it is not always a wise thing for the farmer to plough 
deep and bring up the new soil to the surface. It often 



122 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

happens that the layer of soil which contains the humus 
that is necessary to the growth of the plant is not very 
thick, and if the plough goes too deep the new soil that is 
turned up may be unfit for plant growth. To overcome 
this difficulty a subsoil plough is sometimes used, which 
loosens the hard soil below without turning it up to the 
surface. But the farmer must aim, Httle by Kttle, to en- 
rich his soil with humus to such a depth that he will be 
able to plough deep without turning up poor soil. 

Before beginning to plough, many farmer^ prefer to 
break the surface of the ground with a disk harrow. If 
the ground is at all hard, there is always danger that the 
furrow slice which is turned over by the plough may not 
settle down upon the subsoil; and if there are gaps be- 
tween the furrow sHce and subsoil the roots of the plant 
cannot go down and the moisture from the subsoil cannot 
rise to the seed-bed. But if the surface is broken by a 
disk harrow before ploughing, then, when the furrow 
sKce is turned under, the spaces will be filled with a fine 
surface mould. And when, after ploughing, the surface 
of the ground is again disked, the seed-bed is usually in 
good condition. 



To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to 
plant seeds and watch their renewal of life, — this is the 
commonest dehght of the race, the most satisfactory 
thing a man can do. The man who has planted a garden 
feels that he has done something for the good of the world. 

Charles Dudley Warner. 



THE SOWER 

And great multitudes were gathered together unto 
Jesus, so that he went into a ship, and sat; and the whole 
multitude stood on the shore. 

And he spake many things unto them in parables, 
saying, Behold a sower went forth to sow; 

And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, 
and the fowls came and devoured them up. 

Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much 
earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had 
no deepness of earth: 

And w^hen the sun was up, they were scorched; and 
because they had no root, they withered away: 

And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up 
and choked them: 

But others fell into good ground, and brought forth 
fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirty- 
fold. 

Who hath ears to hear, let him hear. 

The Bible. 




.m. 



123 



THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB 

(Concluded) 

When the Corn Club met at the school-house, Mr. Brooks, 
a young farmer who had taken a course in the agricultural 
college, was asked to take charge of the meeting. He 
decided that after our last two meetings it was time for 
us to have another talk about the growing of corn, and so 
he chose for his subject: "How to Know Good Seed-Corn. " 

Mr. Brooks was a practical man, who believed in doing 
things instead of talking about them, and as soon as 
the meeting was called to order he brought in a large 
basket filled with ears of corn. Out of this pile he se- 
lected three ears, which he held up, one by one, and after- 
ward passed around so that we might examine them. 
The first ear which he showed us, was not fully developed, 
and neither the tip nor the butt of the ear was properly 
filled out. The next ear was better, but the kernels did 
not run in straight lines and there were wide gaps between 
some of the rows. Some of the kernels, too, were small 
and dull in appearance. The third was a good ear, with 
well-filled butt and tip, straight rows, and kernels of uni- 
form size and shape, which were tightly fitted together. 
The ear was a good color and had a bright, healthy ap- 
pearance; and, as Mr. Brooks pointed out, it was nearly 
as large around at the tip as at the butt. This kind of 
ear, Mr. Brooks explained, was likely to produce a good, 
vigorous growth of corn. 

124 



THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB 125 

Since we were gathered around him in a close group, it 
was an easy matter for us to see and judge of the different 
ears as he held them up before us; and in this way we 
examined the whole sixty ears which he had in his basket. 
Out of these sixty, following Mr. Brooks's instructions, 
we selected twenty ears which seemed to us to answer 
all the tests of good seed-corn. 

In our neighborhood up to this time no one had ever 
thought of testing corn to see if it was good. As long as 
the crows or the cutworms did not get it, there was no 
reason, as far as we could see, why it should not grow; 
and when Mr. Brooks proposed that we make a test of 
the twenty good ears that we had selected, we were in- 
terested in seeing how the test would turn out, although it 
seemed to us rather a pity that any one should go to so 
much trouble for nothing. 

Mr. Brooks had brought with him what is known as a 
rag-doll tester. This tester consists of a strip of strong 
muslin about sixty inches long and nine inches wide, 
blocked off into squares, which are numbered from one to 
twenty. This strip of muslin was moistened with warm 
water, and after it was spread out, Mr. Brooks took six 
kernels from each ear, two from each end and two from 
the middle, on opposite sides, and placed each group of 
kernels on one of the numbered squares. The ear of corn 
in each case was marked with the same number, so that 
later on we should be able to tell from which ear the ker- 
nels were taken. After the kernels were all laid out with 
tips pointing to one side of the cloth and germs upper- 
most, the tester was carefully rolled up and tied with a 
string in the centre to hold the kernels in place. It was 



126 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

then placed in a pail of warm water, with the tips of the 
kernels pointing downward. 

We knew, of course, that it would be over a week before 
we could see the results of the test; but Mr. Brooks gave us 
directions as to what was to be done with the rag doll 
in the meantime, and promised to come back in eight or 
nine days so as to see how the test turned out. 

When the rag doll was unrolled, the sprouts on the good 
kernels were about two inches long; but we found that one 
group of kernels had not sprouted at all, and that in three 
other groups the kernels were so weak that they were not 
likely to produce good hills of corn. Before Mr. Brooks 
left that day, he had us make a calculation to show how 
much we should have lost by planting seed-corn from 
those four ears, supposing they had turned out as badly 
as the test seemed to show. The sixteen good ears were 
distributed among the members of the club, and as a re- 
sult of this experiment we decided that in planting our 
acres of corn we would not use any seed that had not been 
carefully tested. 

Most of the senior boys and girls in the school had 
by this time joined the club, and from this time on nearly . 
all our meetings were held in the school, with Miss Stuart 
in charge. This was very convenient, for as soon as the 
time came for us to begin work on our acres, there were 
a great many things about which we needed information. 
Just when should we begin planting? How much space 
should we leave between hills and rows? What are the 
best varieties of corn to plant ? How many kernels should 
we plant to a hill? When should the ground be rolled, 
and when should we begin to cultivate ? How Idng should 



THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB 127 

it take the corn plant to come to maturity, and which 
of the new ears should we choose for seed-corn for next 
year? 

Early in the spring Mr. Brooks offered a fine set of tools 
as a prize to the member of the club whose acre of corn 
should produce the largest crop, and Miss Stuart offered 
a fountain pen as a prize to the boy or girl who should 
write the best account of the work of the club during the 
winter. Mr. Brooks's prize was won by Harry Parker, 
who raised over one hundred and twenty bushels on his 
acre. No one was more proud of Harry's success than his 
brother Sam; for although he had made sport of our club 
to begin wdth, he was really interested in our meetings and 
glad that the work of the club had turned out so well. 
Miss Stuart's prize was awarded to the member of the 
club who wrote the account which you have just finished 
reading. 








hs^'r;^.-^' 



^^. .A<.i^ ^^ 




The codling moth. 



THE APPLE TREE 



Most boys and girls when they find a wormy apple are 
ready to throw it away in disgust. But if the apple is 
thrown away, think what happens ! The worm will by 
and by eat its way out of the apple and is sure to crawl 
off to the trunk of the tree. It will search out some 
crevice in the bark and there spin a cocoon; and if it is 
late in the year it will remain here all winter. In the 
early spring a pretty little moth emerges from the cocoon 
and immediately proceeds to lay its supply of fifty or 
sixty eggs within the blossoms of the tree, so that the ap- 
ples next fall will be wormier still. This pest of the apple 
orchard, whether in the form of a moth or a cocoon or a 
worm, is known as the codling moth. 

There are two ways in which the farmer may get rid of 
the codling moth and so prevent his apples from becoming 
wormy. In the first place, he can protect the birds which 
feed on the grubs that are hidden in the cocoons. When, 







HI 


^^^^^^i 


^^^^^ n 


Hi 




^^^^^^^" f^^l 


^^^1 




^^^^^^#4^ ^H 


^^H 


^V^i^^j^^i^||j^ 


^^^^^^^i^i^H 


^^H 


•v^r^^ 


^^^^^^^^^^H 


^^H 


'^<^^^ 


^^^^^^^^■^1 


^^H 




|^9Hfl^B|BH5£0'^K^K^^^^^^^^| 


^^^^^^^11 


;-■> -'m 


axs^KHHSiSu^^SBsSSI^H^il^^^^^^^^l 


^^^^^^^^^■1 


'•t ' ^L^ 


^j^^^nH^^id^K^aH^^^H^^^^I 


^^^^^^^11 


•A^ 


i^^^H^^^^^^^^^^^H^^^I 


^^^^^Hl 


-- ^ 






-^'J 


i^il^^^fi^r^^K^^^S^^^^^^I 


^^^^^H 


7 




1 


»f -'■ -:.%M. 


' ""W '^^Mrepftg •'^ 


VH|^JH 


' '^^m 




^^m 


>-* ^ 


^^^p-' 


^\ 


■ i-'-*^ 


^^K. 


\ 


'X^ ■ ^'^^^SIbw 


yjMSitlK ?'i' -•' '^ ^ 






■bH^^ 


\ 


''*•-- *^<43^E 'i 


WWB^^ 


; 


- . .-^8 


^^K 


1 


»"A»j' "'fe «^M» 'rSfSBI 


JBiJ^Ep 


1 


^ ' 5 >]-^^^Lw^SBi 


BBjfcsBBoE ^? ' /."y-K- <-.>^ ' 


1 


''^^t - ' IlLCOlB^roD 


|^S^^SKWMBM|^^B^H|; 


a 


>iP^5>Y^r if^^l^rfSraf 


^Hh|^H|^^H^^» 


1^^^ 


^ ^ ^^-- 'JraHncBH^H 


j^mWiS^BBB^^^B^l 


^^^^1 


* -f^V^^^mSm 


M^BMJy^jg^HHgS^BWBlBi 


^^^^^^1 


^^ ml^Ji^lSH 


^^Mf4g5fllMt^lPH^QSflE^^K jP^EBs 


^^^^^^^^^B 


•'^^•^tt:^ a«ttiia*nmSll 


!^MKs^9'jB9^aHlEM^^SI^^^^&'*4^9l9i 


^^^^^^^^^1 


J^n&kNQr^LM^SKrJP^i 


L^^SOt^iOlOi^^HBBw. . -IIsHb 


^^MBJJJW 



I30 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



on a winter day, you see the little downy woodpecker 
working away at the trunk of an apple tree, you may be 
sure that he is searching the crevices of the bark for the 
cocoons of the codling moth. No matter how well they 
may be hidden under the bark, there are few of them that 

escape his sharp eyes. His 
bill is just suited for chisel- 
ling into the soft wood. 
His tongue is long and elas- 
tic, and the tip of it is 
horny and is fitted with 
barbs, so that if once he 
spears a cocoon the grub 
inside of it cannot escape. 
The downy woodpecker is 
one of the best friends of 
the farmer; but when the 
farmer's boy is armed with 
a gun or when the sports- 
man from town goes for a 
day's shooting in the coun- 
try, the downy makes a 
good target, and it is an easy matter for the gunner to 
shoot away some hundreds of dollars with a single shot. 
The downy woodpecker is quite tame, and if you are 
cautious you can sometimes come quite close to him, 
close enough at least to see the scarlet crown patch and 
the stiff tail-feathers with which he props himself against 
the tree when at work. 

A second means which the farmer can make use of to 
prevent the apples from becoming wormy is to spray the 




The downy woodpecker. 



THE APPLE TREE 131 

trees in the early spring with a poison called lead arsenate. 
That will kill the worms when they are first hatched from 
the eggs. The poison is sprayed on the trees by means 
of a certain kind of pump. This spray should be first 
used just after the blossoms fall, for it is then that the 
eggs hatch out and the worm begins to eat into the young 
fruit that is just beginning to form. Three or four weeks 
later the spray is repeated, and in midsummer, when a 
second brood of worms hatch out, it is again used in the 
same way. The spraying, if properly done, never fails to 
kill the worms, and it is safe to say that the farmer who 
not only sprays his trees but protects the downy wood- 
pecker will have a full crop of apples which do not have 
to be thrown away because they are wormy. 

Besides the codHng moth, the apple tree has a good many 
other enemies, which the farmer has to fight. The buds 
and leaves are attacked by caterpillars of various kinds. 
The trunk and branches are sometimes covered with very 
small insects, or ''scales," no larger than a small pinhead, 
which suck out the juices. The bark also is riddled with 
holes made by grubs called borers, which live upon the 
juicy inner bark. 

The farmer uses various means to get rid of these enemies. 
He sprays his trees with various mixtures; he cuts off and 
burns the branches that are badly diseased; he wraps 
sticky bands around the tree trunk to prevent caterpillars 
from cHmbing. But if he would prevent his young son 
from robbing the birds' nests, or from going out with a 
gun and shooting the orioles and the cuckoos, he would 
find his task of fighting the insects to be very much easier. 



THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE 

Come, let us plant the apple tree. 
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; 
Wide let its hollow bed be made; 
There gently lay the roots and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 

And press it o'er them tenderly, 
As, round the sleeping infant's feet 
We softly fold the cradle sheet; 

So plant we the apple tree. 

What plant we in this apple tree ? 
Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; 
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, 
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple tree. 

What plant we in this apple tree ? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May wind's restless wings, 
When, from the orchard row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors; 

A world of blossoms for the bee. 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom. 

We plant with the apple tree. 
132 



THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE 

What plant we in this apple tree ? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon, 
And drop when gentle airs come by 
That fan the blue September sky, 

While children come, with cries of glee, 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass 

At the foot of the apple tree. 



And when, above this apple tree, 
The winter stars are quivering bright. 
And winds go howKng through the night. 
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth. 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see. 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 
And golden orange of the line, 

The fruit of the apple tree. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



^33 




THE CAMPAIGN 

(Concluded) 

The campaign against the army of flies was scarcely 
well begun when the armies of weeds and insects began to 
appear. Lieutenant Dick and Major Milton had been 
engaged in fighting weeds in previous years, and they 
knew how difficult it is to make headway against them. 
But in those days they had been mere privates enhsted 
against their will and fighting with mere garden weapons; 
and privates couldn't be expected to fight as well as officers 
with swords and bayonets ! 

One of the difficulties with the campaign against the 
army of weeds, as both boys foresaw, was the fact that the 
enemy were likely to push forward over a wide front, 
and that, having once intrenched themselves, they were 
very difficult to dislodge; for even if they were bayoneted, 
a large percentage were sure to recover from their wounds. 

'^The only way that it is possible to defeat them," said 
General Ben, ''is to keep attacking them in their intrench- 
ments, until finally they become worn out and die from 
exhaustion. 

''The best way for us to meet them, it seems to me, is 
to divide our forces and send one of our officers against 
each division of the enemy. I will undertake to fight the 
armies of Field-Marshal Mustard and Major Thistle, and 
General Burdock and all the other tribes that have in- 
trenched themselves in the fields and highways. Nora 
here will try to keep back the forces of General DandeHon, 

134 



THE CAMPAIGN 135 

who has pitched his tents on the inner grounds of the fort. 
You'll see the golden shields of his soldiers from the win- 
dows of the fort before very long. Dick and Milton will 
hold the most dangerous positions. It will be their duty 
to bayonet every one of the enemy's advance guard who 
tries to creep in upon the fort by scaHng the walls of the 
garden. 

''You all agree? Then, fix bayonets, and let us to the 
charge !" 

About a week later, when the fruit-trees in the orchard 
were beginning to blossom, General Ben came into the 
officers' quarters in the fort with a number of twigs in his 
hand, and after laying them down carefully, he took from 
his pocket a small box, together with a magnifying-glass. 

''What have you there. General Ben?" said Dick, 
saluting his superior officer. 

"Prisoners of war," rephed General Ben. "It is time 
for us to begin our attack on the army of insects. The 
enemy has taken cover in the orchard in large numbers, 
and is about to make an attack upon the convoys which 
are bringing our next season's food supphes. 

"This," continued General Ben as he opened the box 
which he had brought with him and showed them a small 
brownish moth, "is one of our worst enemies. It belongs 
to the army of codling moths. All through the winter they 
have lain in ambush under the bark, and now they are 
coming out of their shelters and going up into the trees 
to raise new armies. The raw recruits of the first army 
will appear in a few days and take up their quarters in 
the hearts of the blossoms." 

"Ugh," said Milton, making a wry face. "I know 



136 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

what you mean. It's these codling moths that make the 
apples wormy!" 

''That's just it!" said General Ben, ''and if we want to 
have good apples in this fort next winter, we must get 
out our machine guns and begin to fight these new enemies 
right away." 

"Just as soon as the blossoms fall," said Nora, who had 
been reading up the latest war bulletins. 

"What do you feed the machine guns with?" inquired 
Milton. "I've heard father say, but I've forgotten." 

"Why, with lead of course," said Nora scornfully. 
"Arsenate of lead. Don't you know that bullets are made 
of lead?" 

"What did you bring the twigs in for, General Ben?" 
said Dick, who had been examining them rather cautiously. 

"Take another look. There's a whole squad of prisoners 
on that twig," repHed General Ben. "Better have a look 
at them through the field-glasses. These prisoners be- 
long to the San Jose battalion. They are very small, 
and they are dangerous enemies because they spread very 
rapidly. The soldiers that you see on this twig will raise 
hundreds of millions of new recruits this summer if they 
get a chance." 

"Why, there's one of them running around now," said 
Dick, "a Httle yellow fellow." 

"He hasn't settled down yet," replied General Ben. 
"When he does, he'll put his shield over his head and stay 
in one place until he sucks the Hfe-blood out of his enemy. 
They're a hard enemy to fight, but we will load our ma- 
chine gun up with a different kind of ammunition and 
spray the whole San Jose army with a shower of bullets." 



THE CAMPAIGN 137 

**I've read somewhere," said Nora, " that they some- 
times bring big siege guns down from the concentration 
camp to go from fort to fort, just to fight this one enemy." 

''That's all right," replied General Ben. ''We may 
have to call in the siege guns, too. But let us try our own 
machine guns first." 

The attack on the codhng moths and the San Jose scale 
was only the first stage in the campaign against the hosts 
of insects which summer after summer laid siege to the 
farm. Canker-worms, which feasted on the leaves of the 
apple trees; caterpillars, which set up their "tents" on 
the ends of the branches; borers, which lived on the inner 
bark — all had to be attacked and destroyed in turn, in 
order that the apple crop might be protected. Cur- 
cuHos had to be shaken down from the plum trees; cab- 
bage-worms and tomato-caterpillars, and potato beetles 
and cutworms had to be destroyed; "wrigglers" had to 
be smothered in the water-barrels, and ants poisoned with 
insect powder in the kitchen. When one army was 
vanquished, it seemed as if another was always ready to 
take its place. 

But, although these engagements were sometimes des- 
perate, the struggle was by no means hopeless, and the offi- 
cers within the fort were encouraged by the fact that they 
had an army of splendid allies on their side. All winter 
long a scouting column of chickadees and nuthatches and 
downy woodpeckers had searched the crevices in the 
bark for hidden cocoons. In the spring the orchard was 
visited by bluebirds and orioles and cuckoos, and the 
garden was patrolled by robins and wrens; while the 
phoebe and king-bird and wood-pewee did outpost duty 



138 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

about the grounds and outer forts. Overhead, a flying 
corps of keen-eyed swallows and swifts swooped down upon 
the invaders, and even after darkness had fallen, a battalion 
of bats and night-hawks circled to and fro in pursuit of 
the enemy. 

And amid all this warfare, amid the noise of bayonet 
and machine gun and the signal calls of pickets and 
patrols, in a quiet corner of the garden there sat a swarthy, 
homely, silent guard, who slew his thousands and tens of 
thousands of the enemy, when in an evil moment they 
chanced to pass his way. His name was Corporal Toad. 

When the summer was over, the fight against the count- 
less enemies who besieged the fort was not yet finished. 
It is a fight which goes on without ceasing, from year to 
year. But General Ben had the satisfaction of knowing 
that -his officers were better and more intelligent soldiers 
than when they began and he had no little pride in recom- 
mending to the commander-in-chief that Lieutenant Dick 
and Major Milton and Adjutant Nora should be given 
some reward for distinguished service and promoted to a 
higher rank when the fight should be continued for the 
coming year. 



The great point of advantage in the life of the country 
is that if a m^an is in reality simple, if he love true con- 
tentment, it is the place of all places where he can grow. 
The city affords no such opportunity. Indeed, it often 
destroys the desire for the higher life which animates 
every good man. 

David Grayson. 



THE REDWING 

I hear you, brother, I hear you, 

Down in the alder swamp. 
Springing your woodland whistle 

To herald the April pomp ! 

First of the moving vanguard, 
In front of the spring you come, 

Where flooded waters sparkle, 
And streams in the twilight hum. 

You sound the note of the chorus 
By meadow and woodland pond, 

Till, one after one up-piping, 
A myriad throats respond. 

I see you, brother, I see you, 

With scarlet under your wing, 
Flash through the ruddy maples. 

Leading the pageant of spring. 

Earth has put off her raiment 

Wintry and worn and old. 
For the robe of a fair young sibyl, 

Dancing in green and gold. 

I heed you, brother. To-morrow 

I, too, in the great employ. 
Will shed my old coat of sorrow 

For a brand-new garment of joy. 

Bliss Carman. 
139 



/4jmM:. 



tf 'm 



'^M: 



Nest of chipping-sparrow. 



BIRDS OF THE FARM: ORCHARD AND GARDEN 

One of the first birds that should be provided for in 
every farmyard is the house- wren ; and as soon as the birds 
return in the spring a wren-box should be put up in some 
suitable place. The box must not be too large; an or- 
dinary square cigar-box or chalk-box is a good size. The 
entrance should not be larger than an inch in diameter, 
and the box must be nailed up securely, out of reach of 
cats. If boxes are not provided, the wrens are, of course, 
forced to look out for places for themselves. I found a nest 
once, placed on top of one of the scanthngs in a shed. On 
another occasion the wrens made use of the letter-box at 
the front gate, and, in the yard of one of my neighbors, 
they have taken possession of an old watering-can hang- 
ing on the outside of a wall. 

140 



BIRDS OF THE FARM 141 

Besides the house-wren, every farmyard and orchard 
has its robin redbreasts. The robin somehow appears 
to me to be a part of the farm — a sort of tenant who pays 
me his ground-rent in the grubs and worms that he eats; 
and if he does help himself to a few cherries, it is only 
fair to remember that he has already earned them many 
times over. 

Another bird which makes his home in the neighbor- 
hood of the farmhouse and garden is the chipping-spar- 
row. Early in April you may hear his simple, chipping note 
from the trees of the orchard or the shrubbery of the lawn; 
and when you see him you will recognize him at once by 
the pale-gray breast and chestnut crown. You sometimes 
find the nest in your apple tree or in an evergreen on your 
lawn, or sometimes in the honeysuckle at your very door; 
and when you have found it you cannot help expressing 
your admiration; for it is seldom you find so pretty a 
picture as the Kttle cup-Hke nest with its Hning of horse- 
hair and its five tiny, speckled, sky-blue eggs. 

Early in May, the clear whistle of the oriole may be 
heard from the budding shade trees, or the fruit trees in 
the orchard; and the first sight of this brilliantly dressed 
songster is one of the treats of early spring. As soon as the 
leaves are well advanced, the orioles begin nest-building, 
and this is a most interesting operation in bird architec- 
ture. First, several strings are fastened to the branches; 
then the ends are joined together; and into this frame- 
work is woven material of all sorts — strings, thread, and 
hair being the chief components. In pasture-fields, where 
horses are kept, the orioles frequently gather hair from the 
barbs of the fence. Old oriole nests, too, are brought into 



142 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



use very frequently, and the best material is carried away 
from them. One sum^mer I watched an oriole building in 
an elm tree across the road, and was amused at the per- 
formance of a little fly-catcher and a summer yellowbird, 
who took turns in stealing strings and hair from the nest 
of the oriole, in the owner's absence. But they were at 
last discovered and driven off. 

In the meantime, throughout the spring months the 
orchard and garden are visited by many other birds. In 
early spring the song-sparrow sings his sweet and simple 
melody from the shrubbery in the garden. The downy 
woodpecker inspects my apple trees in search of cocoons. 
A vireo sings his rippling song from amid the orchard blos- 
soms. The yellow warbler is building in a shade tree 
near by; and from the other side of the orchard I hear 
the mournful call of the wood-pewee or the hollow clack 
of the cuckoo as he comes to search my orchard for cater- 
pillars. All the birds are my friends — my willing helpers 
who do their work ungrudgingly, asking only for my pro- 
tection in return. 




A vireo's nest. 



THE FARMER'S FRIENDS 

From '' The Birds of Killingworth " 

The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 

The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood, 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song- 



? 



Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught 

The dialect they speak, where melodies 
Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 

Whose household words are songs in many keys, 
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 

Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 

Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember, too, 
'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 

The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 

Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 
143 



144 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! - 
Of empty nests that cHng to boughs and beams, 

As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 

Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 

Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 

The feathered gleaners follow to your door? 

You call them thieves and pillagers; but know 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe. 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 
Renders good service as your man-at-arms. 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



NATURE'S SONG 

There is no rhyme that is half so sweet 

As the song of the wind in the rippHng wheat; 

There is no meter that's half so fine 

As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine; 

And the lovehest lyric I ever heard 

Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird. 

Madison Cawein. 



TOM'S BICYCLE 

The Wilson boys, who lived two farms down from ours, 
had bought a bicycle. It was an old, second-hand machine, 
pretty much out of date in make and not in the best re- 
pair; but it was enough to give my brother Tom, who was 
four years older than I, the "bicycle fever." But when 
he asked father to buy him a wheel, father, as might have 
been expected, said, "No," very decidedly. But Tom was 
not to be so easily put ofi, even though he knew that 
when father said,'' No," he meant it. 

The next day, when we three were hoeing in the gar- 
den, he began a conversation which sounded innocent 
enough, but which as I knew — for I was in the secret — 
was part of a plan to lead father into changing his mind 
about the wheel. 

"Father," he began, "how much ground is there in that 
patch of potatoes in the field next the barn?" 

"About two acres, I think/' replied father, as he kept 
on hoeing. 

"And how many bushels of potatoes do you grow on 
it?" 

"I don't know exactly," repKed father, "perhaps three 
hundred bushels." 

"That's about one hundred and fifty bushels an acre, 
isn't it?" continued Tom. And then after a pause 

"Father, I've got something to ask you. If I work those 
two acres for you next year, with Jack here to help me, 

145 



146 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

will you give me all the potatoes I can make, over three 
hundred bushels?" 

When father questioned further, Tom confessed that he 
wanted to try to earn the wheel out of the extra potatoes, 
and after thinking it over, father decided — as I over- 
heard him telling mother — that '4t might be a good thing 
for the boy"; and he agreed, under certain conditions, to 
let Tom undertake to carry out his plans. But there was 
one thing that father didn't find out till later — that the 
plans were really mother's, and that she had suggested 
the scheme to Tom and promised to help him if father 
would consent. 

From that time forward, Tom took a great interest in 
reading the potato bulletins, and I think he discussed the 
growing of potatoes with half the farmers in the town- 
ship. At mother's suggestion, too, he kept a note-book, 
and drew up a chart besides, on which he might keep dates 
and figures, and any special notes that he required. 

If it had not been for Tom's experiment, father might 
have planted another crop of potatoes in the field by the 
barn; but so as to give Tom a chance to show what he 
could do, he gave him the choice of any field on the farm. 
Tom chose the corner of a clover-field which had been 
well manured the previous spring, and which was com- 
posed of good, rich, sandy loam; and in the fall, after 
the other crops were off, he and father measured off the 
ground, and Tom began to prepare it for the spring 
planting. 

Father did not usually disk the ground before plough- 
ing, but Tom wanted to disk, and, of course, father let him 
have his way. After the disking was finished, the field 



TOM'S BICYCLE 



147 



was ploughed. '' Plough deep," said the bulletins, ''and 
give the roots a chance," and so Tom made his seed-bed 
eight or nine inches deep, and, after disking the ground 
again, he left it to lie for the winter. 

In the spring Tom was in no hurry to plant, for the 
season is long and it is bet- 
ter that the ground should 
be warm before planting. 
So he disked the ground 
again and went over it with 
the roller to make the seed- 
bed more compact. 

In the kind of seed he 
would use Tom had no 
choice. Father had saved 
about fifty bushels of Early 
Rose potatoes for seed, and, 
of course, these potatoes 
had to be used. The Early 
Rose is a good variety, 
though no better than some 
others, but Tom found that 
these particular potatoes 
were scabby and that 
among them there were 
very many small ones. To 

kill the insects that caused the scab, he bought a pound 
of formaline at the druggist's and made a solution in 
which he soaked the potatoes, according to the directions 
in the bulletin; and since the clover-field which he had 
chosen had never been used for potatoes before, he was 




Grandfather offered to help. 



148 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

pretty sure that the ground there would be healthy and 
free from scab disease. 

When it came to cutting up the potatoes for seed, grand- 
father offered to help. We had always cut the potatoes 
up before so as to give one eye to each piece; but this 
time we cut them lengthwise in quarters and halves ac- 
cording to the size of the potato, and planted the small 
ones without cutting. The reason for cutting lengthwise, 
Tom explained, was because the eyes were mostly at one 
end, ''and," he added, ''if you cut the potatoes into very 
small pieces, the plant doesn't have as much food to live 
on when it begins to grow." 

We planted the potatoes in rows three feet apart, so 
that there would be room to cultivate, and left one foot 
between plants. The hills were about four inches deep, 
and we used only one large seed piece for each hill. We 
were both heartily glad when the planting was done, for 
it was not an easy task; but we had splendid weather, 
and two days after we finished planting there came a fine 
warm rain, which moistened the ground and gave our 
potato crop a good start. 

As soon as the ground had dried out, Tom went over 
it with the harrow, and later on, just when the plants be- 
gan to show through the ground he went over the field 
again so as to keep the surface of the ground soft and to 
kill the weeds. And now there were just two things left 
for us to do: keep the ground properly cultivated, and see 
that the tops were kept free from potato bugs and other 
insects. 

In cultivating, Tom followed his instructions faithfully. 
He had been warned not to cultivate too deep, because 



TOM'S BICYCLE 149 

it would dry out the seed-bed and perhaps injure the roots; 
and as a result he kept l\is ground level or nearly level in- 
stead of ''hilling" it up into ridges. Once early in the 
season we went over the field with a hoe, to take out the 





1 ^^ 


^^^^^^hL». ~ 





Cousin Fred, who was visiting us from the city, helped us to pick them. 

weeds that the cultivator had missed. The potato bugs 
did not trouble us greatly; but when they first began to 
appear, Tom went over the field and sprayed the plants 
with a solution of arsenate of lead to keep the bugs down. 

When the tops of the potato plant are strong and healthy 
it is a pretty sure sign that there is a good crop below, 
and father himself admitted that he had never seen as 
good-looking a field of potatoes on our farm. 

Early in September, when the tops began to die down, 
I wanted Tom to dig them; but, though he was just as 



I50 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

anxious as I to see how the crop would turn out, he would 
not touch them. 

"Wait till the vines are all dead," said he. "Don't you 
know that potatoes keep on growing as long as there are 
any green stalks left? That's where father made his mis- 
take last year. He dug his potatoes too early." 

When the time came to take the potatoes up father dug 
them for us with the potato-digger, and Cousin Fred, who 
was visiting us from the city, helped us to pick them. When 
father saw the first few hills he owned they were beauties. 
And so they were, for they were large and well formed, 
and, what was better still, they were free from any signs 
of scab disease. 

No field of potatoes, I am sure, was ever more quickly 
or thoroughly picked than that, and to Tom's delight, 
before the first half of the field had been cleared, over 
three hundred bushels had already been stored away. 
Even after we had allowed for the seed-potatoes, we had 
over three hundred and ten bushels clear, after paying 
father three hundred bushels for his share in the crop. 

Every one in the neighborhood, you may be sure, 
heard about Tom's new bicycle and how he earned it; 
and some of the neighbors, too, knew about mother's 
warm winter coat which Tom gave her for "her share." 
And as for father, he had in his potato cellar the best 
and cleanest stock of potatoes ever grov/n on his farm. 



TOMMY 
The Stoey of a Woodchuck 

Arctomys Monax was his name — Tommy for short. 
Our acquaintance grew from a similarity of tastes. We 
both hked the wooded hillside with its beech and maple 
and hickory, overlooking the wide valley below, with the 
tender green of its pasture-land dotted with elm and button- 
wood, and the gleam of the curving river stretching away 
to the south. We both liked the balmy spring air, and the 
smell of the June clover, and the warmth of the early morn- 
ing sunshine where it played on the fallen logs and stumps, 
between the branches. 

Tommy had not always lived on this hillside. He was 
born one bright day in early May in a strange enough 
spot for a birthplace — a graveyard. There was a clump of 
wild trees and bushes in an unused corner of the cemetery, 
and here mother woodchuck had chosen to rear her brood. 
An old white Hlac nodded over the mouth of the den, and 
through the long, coarse grass and shrubbery on every 
side ran the woodchuck paths which led to the strange 
white world in the open space beyond. 

But in the course of the summer the corner of the ceme- 
tery was cleared up and Tommy took up his quarters in 
an old orchard a little farther down the valley. This was 
an ideal spot; for the orchard was deserted except for the 
bluebirds who built in the holes in the trees and posts, 
and a red squirrel who scolded and sniggered all day long 



152 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

from the corner of a broken-down shed near by. And 
then, what an abundance of food ! The ground was covered 
with a bountiful supply of apples, and to a woodchuck's 
eyes the heavens themselves seemed to rain fatness. But, 
alas ! that , very same autumn the orchard was cut down 
and the field ploughed up; and Tommy retreated pre- 
cipitately one dark night, swam the river, and finally 
found a refuge in an old woodchuck hole under a stump 
on the hillside. Shortly after this a heavy frost fell, and 
Tommy closed up both the doors of his den with leaves, 
rolled himself into a ball, and went to sleep for a full six 
months — not even rolling over and blinking on Candle- 
mas Day, when all good woodchucks should be out looking 
for their shadows. 

The middle of April had come, and I was out for a 
stroll, stopping late in the afternoon to rest on the old 
rail fence that crossed the hillside. I was thinking of 
moving on, when all at once I heard a strange cry or 
rather whistle — a clear, quavering diminuendo, not un- 
musical, but new and strange. Again and again it was 
repeated, but though I scanned every bush and stump 
and fallen log, I could not discover its source; it seemed 
to come from everywhere. In the midst of one of the 
pauses, however, I thought I heard the dry leaves rustle 
in the corner of the fence immediately beneath my feet. 
I looked down and listened intently. Yes, it was evi- 
dent that the cry came from the dead leaves. I shifted my 
position cautiously, reached the ground, and approached 
the fence corner. There was no doubt of it now; between 
the repeated whistles the leaves rustled slightly, as if 
something were stirring them from beneath. What could 



TOMMY 153 

it be? I waited quietly for some minutes, then plunged 
my hand into the leaves. But I was not quick enough — 
which was all the better for my hand. 

Tommy was waking up for the spring, and like all other 
living things was singing his spring song. 

After waiting a few moments I was about to go away, 
when I observed a pair of eyes watching me intently from 
beneath a stump some ten or fifteen feet away. I moved 
cautiously td one side, just out of range. Slowly the head 
was protruded, and the pair of eyes followed me. Then 
the head was withdrawn, then again protruded, and so on, 
half a dozen times, until I was fully scanned, observed, and 
pronounced upon, and then with one final prolonged whistle 
of satisfaction he withdrew at last for the night. This 
was my first introduction to Tommy. 

Tommy did not reason. None of the wild animals do. 
He did not even make comparisons, and he lived entirely 
in the present. But he made good use of his ears and 
eyes; and what was more important, he lived almost en- 
tirely by the aid of his inherited habits, which we call in- 
stincts. And one of the strongest woodchuck instincts is 
curiosity— the habit of investigating. All the wild ani- 
mals, and men and women, too, are fond of the novel and 
interesting, in so far as they can afford to be. Tommy 
and his tribe have a considerable advantage in this re- 
spect. At the mouth of their burrow they are safe and 
can indulge their curiosity to their heart's content. They 
are fierce fighters, and no dog or other enemy dare follow 
them into their den. All their old enemies, the bears, 
wolves, lynxes, and even foxes are gone, and they are 
left in undisturbed possession. And so they sit and watch 



154 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

the whole panorama of the woods, ready, if need be, to dis- 
appear into cover at the Hfting of a finger or the snapping 
of a twig. 

It was this curiosity that made it possible for me to 
get better and better acquainted with Tommy in the 
course of the season to follow. He was, as I soon found 
out, particularly susceptible to sound, and a series of 
whistles was almost certain to attract his attention. 

In the course of a few weeks I discovered that there 
was another woodchuck in the burrow. There was a 
regular woodchuck colony on the hillside and Tommy 
had already chosen a mate and set up housekeeping. I 
had no difificulty, however, in distinguishing my friend, 
for the extreme lightness of his coat and the deeper red of 
the under parts distinguished him in an unmistakable way 
from all the other woodchucks on the hillside. 

The young woodchuck family were born about the end 
of the first week in May, and in the course of two or three 
weeks they were able to shift for themselves. But, strange 
to say, they showed absolutely no fear and behaved with 
very little discretion; one made a meal for a hen-hawk; 
another was worried by the farmer's dog; and how the 
remaining two escaped was a matter for surprise. 

In the meantime Tommy was busily engaged, working 
with all his might in digging a fresh burrow in the pasture- 
land close by the river side, and in clearing out a deserted 
hole in the clover-field close to the barn at the top of the 
hill, so that during the year he might have a variety of 
homes according as his inclinations favored. This task 
completed, the rest of the year was a holiday, with nothing 
to do but to sleep, eat, and grow fat, with the occasional 



TOMMY 



155 



excitement of a chase and a narrow escape, to prevent 
life from becoming too stale. 

Getting a living was a matter of little concern, for grass 
was his staple and his food supplies lay right at his door. 
The young saplings and undergrowth in the neighbor- 
hood of his burrow 
showed the marks of 
his teeth, but as a rule 
he did them' little dam- 
age. Clover was the 
food he liked best, and 
sometimes, too, in the 
warm evenings of later 
June he risked an ex- 
pedition to the farmer's 
garden, and regaled on 
whatever vegetables he 
could find — ^peas, beans, 
cabbage, corn, and even 
pumpkin- vines. 

The most of the day 
he slept indoors, but he 
liked an early morning 
breakfast with the fresh 

dew upon it for drink, and at noon, if all was well, he 
took a sun bath in the sand at his door. Late in the 
afternoon he came out again, and this was the most sub- 
stantial meal of the day. And with Tommy, as with 
all other woodchucks, it was a bite and a look. A few 
mouthfuls of clover and then the whole horizon must be 
scanned, for behind some distant stump or upturned root 




Tommy. 



156 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

or dump of grass an enemy might lurk. Is it any wonder 
that the eyes of the birds and animals are wild, and that 
they wear a hunted look? Their whole existence, sleep- 
ing, eating, watching, is a dream of fear. 

But if Tommy got his living without much trouble, 
this mode of life had its own decided drawbacks and dis- 
advantages, as we shall see. An animal such as the fox, 
for instance, that hunts its prey night and day, winter 
and summer — sooner or later develops a surprising keen- 
ness of scent that is its safeguard in time of danger. But 
the woodchuck has only to crop the clover at the door 
of his burrow for food, and it is upon keenness of sight 
and hearing, rather than upon sharpness of scent, that he 
depends in time of danger. The steel trap that you bury 
in the sand or cover with loose grass at the mouth of his 
den does not appeal to his sense of smell, and he will walk 
boldly into a box trap with almost as Kttle hesitation as 
into his burrow. The only thing that saves him from de- 
struction is that his skin is not worth the tanning. 

Before the middle of June I found that I was not the 
only one who was interested in the woodchuck colony on 
the hillside. One afternoon, on taking my usual walk, I 
found that all the holes, a score or more, were blocked up 
with sticks and leaves. I understood at once; this was 
the first move of the farmers' boys against the wood- 
chucks. Most farmers do not object to one or two in their 
fields. Farm work would be dreary if there were no wild 
animals to vary the monotony. But too many wood- 
chucks are a nuisance. They tramp down more clover 
than they eat; they spoil a certain amount with the earth 
which they throw out from their burrow; but, worst of 



TOMMY 157 

all, they undermine the ground so that the horses^ feet 
sink into the holes, and the machinery of the mower and 
binder is sometimes injured. An effective way of dis- 
posing of them is to sprinkle some copper bisulphide in 
the hole and then close it up. The fumes of the gas have a 
fatal effect, and the woodchuck is simply buried in his 
own grave. But to the farmer's boy there is no fun in 
this. He prefers the excitement of the trap, and so the 
holes were blocked up. In the course of a day or so the 
boys were able to tell which dens were occupied, for the 
woodchucks were forced to clear away the openings to 
come out. And then the excitement began. 

Tommy's mate was the first to suffer, for she had taken 
up quarters in the ground hole near the river bank, and the 
boys at once proceeded to drown her out. The ground 
was sandy and it took twenty or thirty pails of water to 
fill the den; for, needless to say, mother woodchuck had 
no intention of coming out until she was forced, and so 
long as she could keep her nose above water she did not 
care. But the inevitable came at last, and she was doomed. 

For the old woodchuck in the hole under the roots of 
the elm at the foot of the hill a steel trap was used. But 
a day of rain set in, and when the boys came to look for 
their victim they found only a mangled woodchuck's paw, 
bitten off close to the cruel steel. 

Another one farther up the hillside was smoked out by 
lighting a fire of leaves at the entrance of one of the holes 
and fanning the smoke in through the passage so that it 
came out at the other opening. But with Tommy none 
of these devices worked. He was too far from the river 
for them to carry water, and his burrow ran crookedly 



158 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

up the hill so that, even though they burned the stump 
down to the ground, the smoke could not reach him. The 
steel trap was used, but fortunately a small twig pre- 
vented it from holding tight, and he was able with a des- 
perate wrench to pull his foot loose, leaving only a httle 
hair between the jaws of the trap. Once he was chased 
by the dog and had a narrow escape, but safe within the 
mouth of the den he was able to turn and chuckle defiance 
at his pursuer. Once too he received a heavy charge from 
a shotgun, but a thick skin and a thicker skull were an 
effective protection. As a last resort the boys tried dig- 
ging him out, but like a wise woodchuck he had a side 
passage slanting off uphill from his main one, and long 
before they had reached his last retreat he had dug his 
way oft* through the soft sand, filKng up the hole behind 
him, so that to their chagrin they found nothing but an 
empty burrow when they reached the spot. The next 
morning a Httle round hole in the grass showed where he 
had reached the surface of the earth and escaped. 

A few days later, wishing to capture a hve woodchuck 
for a photograph, I set a box trap close to a newly dug 
hole on the next farm a Httle farther up the valley, and 
concealed myself a short distance away to await develop- 
ments. Late in the afternoon a woodchuck appeared at 
the door of the den, looked cautiously on all sides, and 
finally emerged. A glance was sufficient to show me that 
it was Tommy. He examined the box trap curiously, but 
decided to try the fresh grass before venturing in. He did 
not eat much, however. At every two or three mouth- 
fuls he raised himself on his hind legs, crossed his paws 
over his breast, and listened intently. Then a run of a 



TOMMY 159 

few steps meant a fresh examination. An oriole whistled 
from a tree near by, and he turned his head cautiously, 
inquisitively, to Hsten. Then from my hiding-place I 
whistled also. He moved never a muscle, even when I 
advanced a few steps toward him. Suddenly a twig 
crackled. It was a noise that he knew of old as a danger 
signal, and immediately he dropped and ran. A few min- 
utes later he emerged again and by a strange caprice 
walked straight for the box trap, ate the apple outside, 
examined the doorway, and then walked in and reached 
for the bait. A moment later the door fell shut behind 
him, and he was my prisoner, chattering with his teeth 
and snapping at me fiercely from behind the wire screen- 
ing. 

To take his picture I carried the trap out on to the 
flats a quarter of a mile or so from the den, where I could 
find no hole near to which he might escape, and then I 
let him go. He stood for a second only, evidently taking 
his bearings, and before I could reach for my camera he 
was off like a shot in the opposite direction from what 
I expected he would take. I tried to head him off, but 
just as I thought I might succeed, he dropped hke a bullet 
into the ground. It was an old woodchuck's hole which 
I had not noticed ! But Tommy knew every inch of the 
valley. 

This was miy last experience with him. Both holes, 
by the farmer boys' test, remained unused for the rest of 
that season, and Arctomys Monax of the fight brown and 
the deep red slept his winter sleep on some other hillside. 



WHAT DO WE PLANT WHEN WE PLANT 
A TREE?" 

What do we plant when we plant a tree ? 
We plant the ship which will cross the sea. 
We plant the mast to carry the sails; 
We plant the planks to withstand the gales — 
The keel, the keelson, the beam, the knee; 
We plant the ship when we plant the tree. 

What do we plant when we plant the tree ? 
We plant the houses for you and me. 
We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, 
We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, 
The beams and siding, all parts that be; 
We plant the house when we plant the tree. 

What do we plant when we plant the tree ? 
A thousand things that we daily see; 
We plant the spire that outtowers the crag. 
We plant the staff for our country's flag, 
We plant the shade, from the hot sun free; 
We plant all these when we plant the tree. 

Henry Abbey. 



i6q 



SUMMER 




,^s^^i^^:q:%,>,S^==*-=^l^tJ©=^<^^SeJ^ 



A SONG OF WHEAT 

Back of the bread is the snowy flour; 

Back of the flour is the mill; 
Back of the mill the growing wheat 

Nods on the breezy hill; 

Over the wheat is the glowing sun, 
Ripening the heart of the grain; 

Above the sun is the gracious God, 
Sending the sunlight and rain. 




I 



iP) 



m 



/ 



£5£t.-^*^<3-i:5^?^^^-^^^'®>*S5.^^S^?i='^ll>'->S=^ 



ROUND AND ROUND THE FARM 

It is not always an easy thing for the farmer to decide 
what crops he will grow from year to year. A great deal 
depends upon the prices of different farm products, the 
cost of growing them, and the help which he has on the 
farm. But there is one thing on which the best farmers 
are all agreed: that on the ordinary farm it does not pay 
to grow the same crops on the same fields year after year. 
If, for instance, you were to grow crop after crop of wheat 
from a certain field you would find that some of the plant- 
foods would soon be used up and that the soil would be- 
come poor for lack of humus. And if you were to grow 
crop after crop of potatoes from the same soil you would 
find it difficult to keep the ground free from scab and 
other plant diseases. As a matter of fact, different crops 
use plant-food from different parts of the soil; and the 
change from one crop to another not only gives the soil 
a rest, but gives the farmer an opportunity to keep down 
the weeds and to put the soil in good condition. 

But in providing for a change of crop, if we wish to 
secure the best results it usually is best to follow some 
definite order. After a crop of wheat, for example, which 
uses up a good deal of plant-food frbm the surface of the 
soil, it is generally a good thing to follow with some legume 
such as clover, which produces nitrogen and at the same 
time helps to keep up the supply of humus when it is 
ploughed under. And after a crop of clover, when the 
ground has been ploughed up it is usually a good thing 

163 



1 64 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

to put in a hoed crop such as potatoes or turnips or corn, 
which will help to loosen up the soil and keep it free from 
weeds. By this time the ground will again be in good 
condition for wheat or oats or some other sort of grain. 
When different crops follow each other in this way so as 
to form a series, they are said to come in rotation, which 
is another way of saying that they come around in a 
regular order like the spokes in a wheel. The simplest 
sort of rotation is the one which we have just described, 
where grain, legumes, and a root crop follow each other 
in this order; but the farmer in some cases finds that 
other rotations are best suited to the needs of his farm, 
and four, five, and even six year rotations are sometimes 
employed. 



It is this way with the farmer. After the work of plant- 
ing and cultivating, after the rain has fallen on his fields, 
after the sun has warmed them, after the new green leaves 
have broken the earth — one day he stands looking out 
with a certain new joy across his acres (the wind bends 
and half turns the long blades of the corn) and there springs 
up within him a song of the fields. No matter how little 
poetic, how Httle articulate he is, the song rises irrepres- 
sibly in his heart, and he turns aside from his task with 
a new glow of fulfilment and contentment. 

David Grayson. 



BREAKING IN THE COLT 



Down the field comes the colt, tail erect, neck arched, 
prancing as if he could not restrain his glee and gladness. 
Halt! There he is at the fence, standing stock-still, star- 
ing at a passing wagon. Little he thinks that soon he, 
too, will be put to drawing 
loads ! Yet even now it is time 
to begin "breaking in" the colt. 

When should the colt's train- 
ing begin? In the very first 
year of his fife. "What," you 
say, "put a tiny little colt, not 
a year old, in harness!" No, 
but begin to train him while he 
is still a very small colt nursing 
by his mother's side. If we per- 
mit him to run wild until he 
has reached his full strength, 
and then try to saddle and bridle 
him by force, we shall not have 
a gentle, well-trained horse. 

Let the colt be handled from 
the first by different persons, so 

as to make him fearless. Teach him to feed from your 
hand; to allow his feet to be handled; to be led to 
and fro by the forelock; to endure a hand placed on his 
back; to permit you to pat and caress him. Never pun- 

i6s 




Staring at a passing wagon. 



1 66 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

ish him at this stage, but keep sugar or apples in your 
pocket and reward him whenever he does as you wish. 

As he grows a little older, strap a pad on his back for 
a few hours every day — then stirrup leathers with the 
stirrups attached. If you accustom him to dangling 
straps he will be less likely to become frightened if the 
harness happens to break. 

When he is about a year old, the colt's bit should be 
occasionally put into his mouth, and shortly after this, 
he should be walked in a circle, with a long rein attached 
to the bit. By this means, teach him to moderate his 
pace — to come toward you, or to stop dead short at a word 
from you. This will require time — and patience. 

When it is time to teach the colt to go in harness — 
and he should not be put to work until he is three and a 
half or four years old — put the harness on very carefully, 
making sure that it is strong and that it fits well. Let 
him stand in his stall or walk about the yard until he is 
used to the pressure of the different parts and to the rat- 
tling. When he is quiet, check him up loosely and drive 
him about the yard. 

When he will stop and start at a word and will turn to 
right or left, hitch him to a vehicle. A sulky is best, at first. 
Let him examine it, and smell it; draw it up behind him; 
run it back and forward before attaching him to it. If he is 
frightened, caress him and speak kindly until he is soothed. 

Drive along the road slowly at first, to give him a 
chance to become famiHar with the objects that look so 
strange to him. If he seems frightened at any object, 
do not use the whip, or he will be likely to associate the 
punishment with the thing he fears and be more fright- 



BREAKING IN THE COLT 167 

ened than ever the next time he sees it. Have him ex- 
amine the object, and talk encouragingly to him. 

There are many tricks you may teach your young horse. 
One boy taught a very young colt to step up with his 
fore feet on a box and reach for his oats, which were so 
placed that he must stretch his neck and bend down his 
head to eat them. This, performed so often while he was 
growing, gave a beautiful curve to his neck, which made 
him much admired. 

A colt may easily be taught to shake hands. Tie a 
strap to the fore foot below the fetlock; then stand before 
him, and as you say, ''Shake hands," pull on the strap 
until his foot is brought forward. Reward him then, and 
keep repeating until he has learned the lesson. 

If you treat your horse well, he will be an intelligent, 
affectionate, faithful servant, and he will be quite as inter- 
esting when full grown as he was when a frisking, frolic- 
some colt. 

M. B. Stevenson. 




Training the colt. 



SCYTHE SONG 

Mowers, weary, and brown, and blithe, 

What is the word, methinks ye know, 
Endless overword that the Scythe 

Sings to the blades of the grass below ? 
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, 

Something, still, they say as they pass; 
What is the word that, over and over. 

Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass ? 

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, 

Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; 
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, 

Hush, they sing to the clover deep. 
Hush — 'tis the lullaby Time is singing — 

Hush, and heed not, for all things pass, 
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging 

Over the clover, over the grass ! 

Andrew Lang. 



-^'^l- -" ' ^ 





Cotton ready for picking. 



THE COTTON-PLANT 



The name cotton is simply another form of the French 
word coton, which is in turn derived from kutn^ the Ara- 
bian name for cotton. 

The cotton-plant belongs to the mallow family, and is 
closely related to the milkweed and the hollyhock. The 
plant itself is a shrub which grows from three to seven 
feet in height. It consists of a central stem, main branches, 
and smaller limbs which bear the flowers and fruit. The 
flower buds, on account of their shape, are known as 
squares. Within a few weeks after they appear, these 
squares unfold in the form of large white flowers; and 
when, a few days later, these flowers fall off, they leave be- 

169 



I70 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

hind them small green pods, or bolls. After a month's 
growth, the bolls turn brown, and finally split open in from 
three to five divisions, each containing from thirty to fifty 
black seeds with Knt or cotton attached to them. A sin- 
gle cotton-plant sometimes produces several hundred bolls. 

The cotton grown in India and other countries of the 
East has a longer fibre than the varieties grown in the 
Southern States, and the Hnt can be easily separated from 
the seed. It is a perennial and needs to be replanted only 
once in seven years, while the cotton-plant of the Southern 
States is an annual and must be replanted every year. 
Nevertheless, in spite of greater difficulties in cultivation 
and manufacture, two thirds of the world's supply of 
cotton is produced in the Southern States. 

Two different species of cotton are produced in the 
United States. The kind which is most commonly grown 
is known as American Upland; but along the coasts of 
South CaroHna, Georgia, and Florida, a species known as 
Sea-island cotton is produced. Sea-island cotton commands 
a higher price than American Upland, because the lint is 
longer and finer; but the higher price is partly offset by 
the fact that it produces a smaller yield. Both these 
species include a large number of minor varieties. 

Cotton will grow on almost any kind of land, but it 
thrives best in a clay-loam soil. Where the ground is 
ploughed in the fall, a cover crop of legumes should be 
planted, which must, of course, be ploughed under in the 
spring. Cotton is planted in ridges or beds, which are 
made as far apart as the cotton usually grows tall. In 
making these beds, the ground should be thoroughly 
pulverized to a depth of three or four inches. Planting 



THE COTTON-PLANT 171 

takes place as soon as the danger of frost is over, which is 
usually from March 15th, to May ist, according to climate. 
About a bushel of seed is required per acre. The young 
shoots appear a few days after planting, but even before 
they come up, cultivation begins. From this time until 
the cotton matures, the ground must be constantly cul- 
tivated; but, owing to the fact that the root fibres of the 
cotton are only a few inches below the surface, cultivation 
must be shallow. When the shoots are well up, they are 
thinned by a hoe so as to leave intervals of twelve to 
twenty-four inches between plants, according to the na- 
ture of the soil. 

The chief enemy of the cotton-plant is the Mexican 
boll-weevil. A weevil, it should be explained, is a kind of 
beetle; and the boll-weevil is so named because its larvae, 
or '^ grubs," feed on the bolls of the cotton-plant. The 
Mexican boll-weevil, although it had been known in 
Mexico for many years, did not appear in the United 
States until the year 1892, and since then it has been 
gradually spreading over the cotton area. The weevil is 
about a quarter of an inch in length, and is reddish-brown 
in color. During the cold season the weevil hibernates — 
that is, it lives in a torpid state; but it reappears in spring 
about the time when the cotton-plant is setting its squares. 
Its eggs are laid in the squares, and the larvae live on the 
young bolls. It is estimated that a single pair of weevils 
between June and November have about twelve million 
descendants. At present the loss due to the ravages of 
the cotton boll-weevil in the United States amounts to 
many milHon dollars every year. 

The cotton crop is harvested some time between the 



172 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



first of August and the middle of September, according 
to climate. Although a number of machines have been 
invented for picking cotton, none has yet been perfected, 
and the cotton is still picked by hand. After picking, the 




Cotton ready to be shipped. 



cotton is packed in bales weighing about five hundred 
pounds, and in this form it is shipped to the factory. The 
annual yield of cotton in the United States is over thirteen 
million bales. 

After the Hnt is separated from the cotton-seed, the 
seed itself is subjected to various processes. The fine 
lint which still adheres to its surface is removed, and 
these fine fibres, which are known as linters, are used in 
the manufacture of coarse yarn, twine, cheap rope, lamp- 



THE COTTON-PLANT 173 

wicks, carpets, paper, and materials for upholstering. 
The hulls are then removed from the seed, packed into 
bales, and sold as feed for cattle. From the oil which is 
obtained from the kernels a great many well-known 
preparations are made, such as oleomargarine, butterine, 
cottolene, salad-oil, and soap. The cottonseed meal, or 
cottonseed cake, which is left after the oil is removed, is 
rich in protein and forms an excellent food for cattle; 
but it is also widely used as a fertilizer for the improve- 
ment of the soil. Not many years ago cottonseed was 
considered to be of no value, and the farmers found dif- 
ficulty in disposing of it; but, needless to say, the use that 
is made of it with modern methods of manufacture adds 
greatly to the value of the cotton crop. 



What a royal plant it is ! The world waits in at- 
tendance on its growth; the shower that falls whispering 
on its leaves is heard around the world ; the sun that 
shines on it is tempered by the prayers of all the people; 
the frost that chills it and the dew that descends from 
the stars are noted; and the trespass of a httle worm 
upon its green leaf is more to England than the advance 
of the Russian army on her Asian outposts. It is gold 
from the instant it puts forth its tiny shoot. 

Henry W. Grady. 



THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH 

There are turnip hoers and turnip hoers, just as there 
are painters and painters. It was Tim Haley's ambition 
to be the first turnip hoer of his district, and for the last 
two seasons he had been quietly studying the art of Perkins, 
the foreman on his father's farm, who for some years had 
easily held the championship for the district. Keenly 
Tim had been observing Perkins's excellences and also 
his defects; secretly he had been developing a style of his 
own, and, all unnoted, he had tested his speed by that of 
Perkins by adopting the method of lazily loafing along 
and then catching up by a few minutes of whirlwind work. 
Tim felt in his soul the day of battle could not be delayed 
past this season; indeed, it might come any day. The 
very thought of it made his shght body quiver and his 
heart beat so quickly as almost to choke him. 

To the turnip field hied Haley's men, Perkins and 
Webster leading the way, Tim and Cameron bringing up 
the rear. 

''You promised to show me how to do it, Tim," said 
Cameron. "Remember I shall be very slow." 

''Oh, shucks!" replied Tim. " Turnip-hoeing is as easy 
as rollin' off a log if yeh know how to do it." 

"Exactly!" cried Cameron, "but that is what I don't. 
You might give me some pointers." 

"Well, you must be able to hit what yeh aim at." 

"Ah! that means a good eye and steady hand," said 

174 



THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH 175 

Cameron. "Well, I can do billiards some and golf. What 
else?" 

"Well, you mustn't be too careful, slash right in and 
don't give a rip." 

"Ah! nerve, eh?" said Cameron. "Well, I have 
done some Rugby in my day — I know something of that. 
What else? This sounds good." 

"Then you've got to leave only one turnip in one place 
and not a weed; and you mustn't leave any blanks. Dad 
gets hot over that." 

"Indeed, one turnip in each place and not a weed," 
echoed Cameron. "Say! this business grows interesting. 
No blanks! Anything else?" he demanded. 

"No, I guess not, only if yeh ever get into a race ye've 
got to keep goin' after you're clear tuckered out and never 
let on. You see, the other chap may be feeUn' worse than 
you." 

"By Jove, Tim! You're a born general!" exclaimed 
Cameron. "You will go some distance if you keep on in 
that line. Now as to racing, let me venture a word, for 
I have done a Httle in my time. Don't spurt too soon." 

"Eh!" said Tim, all eagerness. 

"Don't get into your racing stride too early in the day, 
especially if you are up against a stronger man. Wait 
till you know you can stay till the end, and then put your 
best Hcks in at the finish." 

Tim pondered. 

"You're right," he cried, a glad light in his eye and a 
touch of color in his pale cheek, and Cameron knew he 
was studying war. 

The turnip field, let it be said for the enlightening of 



176 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

city-bred folk, is laid out in a series of drills, a drill being 
a long ridge of earth some six inches in height, some eight 
inches broad on the top and twelve at the base. Upon 
each drill the seed has been sown in one continuous line 
from end to end of the field. When this seed has grown, 
each drill will discover a line of delicate green, this line 
being nothing less than a compact growth of young turnip 
plants with weeds more or less thickly interspersed. The 
operation of hoeing consists in the eliminating of the weeds 
and the superfluous turnip plants, in order that single 
plants, free from weeds, may be left some eight inches 
apart in unbroken line, extending the whole length of the 
drill. The artistic hoer, however, is not content with 
this. His artistic soul demands not only that single plants 
should stand in unbroken row from end to end along the 
drill top, but that the drill itself should be pared down on 
each side to the likeness of a house roof with a perfectly 
even ridge. 

*'Ever hoe turnips?" inquired Perkins. 

"Never," said Cameron, ''and I am afraid I won't 
make much of a fist at it." 

''Well, you've come to a good place to learn, eh, Tim? 
We'll show him, won't we?" 

Tim made no reply, but simply handed Cameron a hoe 
and picked up his own. 

"Now, show me, Tim," said Cameron in a low voice, 
as Perkins and Webster set off on their drills. 

"This is how you do it," rephed Tim. "Click-chck," 
forward and back went Tim's sharp, shining instrument, 
leaving a single plant standing shyly alone where had 
boldly bunched a score or more a moment before. "Chck- 



THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH 177 

click-click," and the flat-topped drill stood free of weeds 
and superfluous turnip plants and trimmed to its proper 
roof-like appearance. 

/'I say!" exclaimed Cameron, ''this is high art. I 
shall never reach your class, though, Tim." 

''Oh, shucks!" said Tim. "Slash in, don't be afraid." 
Cameron slashed in. "Click-click," "click-click-cHck," 
when lo ! a long blank space of drill looked up reproach- 
fufly at him. 

"Oh, Tim ! look at this mess," he said in disgust. 

"Never mind !" said Tim. "Better stick one in, though. 
Blanks look bad at the end of the drill." So saying, he 
made a hole in Cameron's drill and with his hoe dug up a 
bunch of plants from another driU and patted them firmly 
into place, and, weeding out the unnecessary plants, left a 
single turnip in its proper place. 

"Oh, come, that isn't so bad," said Cameron. "We 
can always fill up the blanks." 

"Yes, but it takes time," repHed Tim, evidently with 
the racing fever in his blood. Patiently Tim schooled his 
pupil throughout the forenoon, and before the dinner 
hour had come, Cameron was making what to Tim ap- 
peared satisfactory progress. It was greatly in Cameron's 
favor that he possessed a trained and true eye and a 
steady hand, and that he was quick in all his movements. 

"You're doin' splendid," cried Tim, full of admiration. 

"I say, Scotty!" said Perkins, coming up and casting 
a critical eye along Cameron's last drill, "you're going 
to make a turnip hoer all right." 

"I've got a good teacher, you see," cried Cameron. 

"You bet you have," said Perkins. "I taught Tim 



178 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

myself, and in two or three years he'll be almost as good 
as I am, eh, Tim?" 

*'Huh!" grunted Tim contemptuously, but let it go 
at that. 

''Perhaps you think you're that now, eh, Tim?" said 
Perkins, seizing the boy by the back of the neck and rub- 
bing his hand over his hair in a manner perfectly mad- 
dening. "Don't you get too perky, young fellow." 

Tim wriggled out of his grasp and kept silent. He was 
not yet ready with his challenge. All through the after- 
noon he stayed behind with Cameron, allowing the other 
two to help them out at the end of each drill, but as the 
day wore on there was less and less need of assistance for 
Cameron, for he was making rapid progress with his work, 
and Tim was able to do, not only his own drill, but almost 
half of Cameron's as well. By supper time Cameron was 
thoroughly done out. Never had a day seemed so long, 
never had he known that he possessed so many muscles 
in his back. The continuous stooping and the steady 
click-click of the hoe, together with the unceasing strain 
of hand and eye, and all this under the hot burning rays 
of a June sun, so exhausted his vitality that when the 
cow-bell rang for supper it seemed to him a sound more 
dehghtful than the strains of a Richter orchestra in a 
Beethoven symphony. 

On the way back to the field after supper, Cameron ob- 
served that Tim was in a state of suppressed excitement, 
and it dawned upon him that the hour of his challenge of 
Perkins's supremacy as a turnip hoer was at hand. 

''I say, Tim, boy!" he said earnestly, ''listen to me. 
You are going to get after Perkins this evening, eh?" 




An expert with the hoe. 



i8o COUNTRY LIFE READER 

*'How did you know?" said Tim in surprise. 

*' Never mind! Now listen to me; I have raced myself 
some and I have trained men to race. Are you not too 
tired with your day's work?" 

''Tired! Not a bit," said the gallant Httle soul scorn- 
fully. 

''Well, all right. It's nice and cool and you can't hurt 
yourself much. Now, how many drills do you do after 
supper as a rule?" 

"Down and up twice," said Tim. 

"How many drills can you do at your top speed, your 
very top speed, remember?" 

"About two drills, I guess," repHed Tim, after a mo- 
ment's thought. 

"Now, listen to me!" said Cameron impressively. 
"Go quietly for two and a half drills, then let yourself 
out and go your best. And, listen ! I have been watch- 
ing you this afternoon. You have easily done once and a 
half what Perkins has done, and you are going to beat 
him out of his boots." 

Tim gulped a moment or two, looked at his friend with 
ghstening eyes, but said not a word. For the first two and 
a half drills Cameron exerted to the highest degree his 
conversational powers, with the twofold purpose of hold- 
ing back Perkins and Webster and also of so occupying 
Tim's mind that he might forget for a time the approach- 
ing conflict, the strain of waiting for which he knew would 
be exhausting for the lad. But when the middle of the 
second last drill had been reached, Tim began uncon- 
sciously to quicken his speed. 

"I say, Tim," called Cameron, "come here! Am I get- 



THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH i8i 

ting these spaces too wide?" Tim came over to his side. 
''Now, Tim," said Cameron in a low voice, ''wait a little 
longer; you can never wear him out. Your only chance 
is in speed. Wait till the last drill." 

But Tim was not to be held back. Back he went to 
his place and with a rush brought his drill up even with 
Webster, passed him and, in a few moments, like a whirl- 
wind passed Perkins and took the lead. 

"Halloo, Timmy ! where are you going?" asked Perkins 
in surprise. 

"Home," said Tim proudly, "and I'll tell 'em you're 
comin'." 

"All right, Timmy, my son!" replied Perkins with a 
laugh, "tell them you won't need a hot bath; I'm after 
you." 

"Click-cHck, cHck-cHck-cHck " was Tim's only answer. 
It was a distinct challenge, and, while not openly break- 
ing into racing speed, Perkins accepted it. 

For some minutes Webster quickened his pace in an at- 
tempt to follow the leaders, but soon gave it up and fell 
back to help Cameron up with his drill, remarking: "I'm 
no fool. I'm not going to kill myself for any man. TheyWe 
racing, not me." 

"Will Tim win?" inquired Cameron. 

"Naw! Not this year! Why, Perkins is the best man 
in the whole country at turnips. He took the Agricultural 
Society's prize two years ago." 

"I believe Tim will beat him," said Cameron con- 
fidently, with his eyes upon the two in front. 

"Beat nothing!" said Webster. "You just wait a bit, 
Perkins isn't letting himself out yet." 



1 82 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

In a short time Tim finished his drill some distance 
ahead, and then, though it was quitting time, without a 
pause he swung into the next. 

''Halloo, Timmy !" cried Perkins good-naturedly, "going 
to work all night, eh? Well, I'll just take a whirl out of 
you," and for the first time he frankly threw himself into 
his racing gait. 

''Good boy, Tim!" called out Cameron, as Tim bore 
down upon them, still in the lead and going hke a small 
steam-engine. "You're all right and going easy. Don't 
worry!" 

But Perkins, putting on a great spurt, drew up within 
a hoe-handle length of Tim and there held his place. 

"All right, Tim, my boy, you can hold him," cried 
Cameron, as the racers came down upon him. 

"He can, eh?" replied Perkins. "I'll show him and 
you," and with an accession of speed he drew up on a 
level with Tim. 

"Ah, ha, Timmy, my boy! We've got you where we 
want you, I guess," he exulted, and, with a whoop and 
still increasing his speed, he drew past the boy. 

But Cameron, who was narrowly observing the com- 
batants and their work, called out again: 

"Don't worry, Tim, you're doing nice, clean work and 
doing it easily." The inference was obvious, and Perkins, 
who had been slashing wildly and leaving many blanks 
and weeds behind him, where neither blanks nor weeds 
should be, steadied down somewhat, and, taking more 
pains with his work, began to lose ground, while Tim, 
whose work was without flaw, moved again to the front 
place. There remained half a drill to be done and the 



THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH 183 

issue was still uncertain. With half the length of a hoe 
handle between them, the two clicked along at a furious 
pace. Tim's hat had fallen off. His face showed white 
and his breath was coming fast, but there was still some 
reserve in him. They were approaching the last quarter 
when, with a yell, Perkins threw himself again with a wild 
recklessness into his work, and again he gained upon Tim 
and passed him. 

''Steady, Tim!" cried Cameron, who, with Webster, 
had given up their own work, it being, as the latter re- 
marked, "quitting time, anyway," and were following up 
the racers. "Don't spoil your work, Tim!" continued 
Cameron. "Don't worry." 

His words caught the boy at a critical moment, for 
Perkins's yell and his fresh exhibition of speed had shaken 
the lad's nerve. But Cameron's voice steadied him, and, 
quickly responding, Tim settled down again into his old 
style, while Perkins was still in the lead, but slashing 
wildly. 

"Fine work, Tim," said Cameron quietly, "and you 
can do better yet." For a few paces he walked behind 
the boy, steadying him now and then with a quiet word; 
then, recognizing that the crisis of the struggle was at 
hand, and believing that the boy had still some reserve 
of speed and strength, he began to call on him. 

"Come on, Tim! Quicker, quicker; come on, boy, 
you can do better!" His words, and his tone more than 
his words, were like a spur to the boy. From some secret 
source of supply he called up an unsuspected reserve of 
strength and speed, and, still keeping up his clean-cutting, 
finished style, foot by foot he drew away from Perkins, 



1 84 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

who followed in the rear, slashing more wildly than ever. 
The race was practically won. Tim was well in the lead, 
and apparently gaining speed with every chck of his hoe. 

"Here, you fellows, what are yeh hashin' those turnips 
for?" It was Haley's voice, who, unperceived, had come 
into the field. Tim's reply was a letting out of his last 
ounce of strength in a perfect fury of endeavor. 

''There's — ^ no — hashin' — ^ on — this — drill — dad ! " he 
panted. 

The sudden demand for careful work, however, at once 
lowered Perkins's rate of speed. He fell rapidly behind 
and, after a few moments of further struggle, threw down 
his hoe with a whoop and called out: "Quitting time, I 
guess." Perkins was white and panting, but Tim was 
still going at a racing pace and was just finishing his drill. 

"Looks as if you've got him wound up so's he can't stop," 
remarked Haley. Then, turning to Perkins as if to change 
the subject, he added: "Looks to me as if that hay in the 
lower meadow is pretty nigh fit to cut. Guess we'd better 
not wait till next week. You best start Tim on that with 
the mower in the mornin'." Then, taking a survey of the 
heavens, he added: "Looks as if it might be a spell of good 
weather." Meantime Cameron had sauntered to the end 
of the drill where Tim stood leaning quietly on his hoe. 

"Tim, you are a turnip hoer!" he said with warm ad- 
miration in his tone, "and what's more, Tim, you're a 
sport. I'd like to handle you in something big. You will 

make a man yet." 

Ralph Connor. 




A MIDSUMMER SONG 

Oh, father's gone to market- town : he was up before the 

day, 
And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay. 
And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds 

the mill, 
While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will: 
''Polly ! Polly ! The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, Where's Polly?" 



From all the misty morning air there comes a summer 

sound, 
A murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground. 
The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo; 
And over hill and hollov/ rings again the loud halloo: 
''Polly ! Polly ! The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, Where's Polly?" 
185 



i86 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



Above the trees, the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and 

boom, 
And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. 
Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, 
And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose. 
But "Polly ! Polly ! The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, Where's Polly?" 

How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its 

clatter ! 
The farmer's wife is listening now, and wonders what's 

the matter. 
Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the 

hill. 
While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds 

the mill. 

But "Polly ! Polly ! The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, Where's Polly?" 

Richard Watson Gilder. 






^^^X^.->' 










# 



A DAY ON THE FARM 

Father came into our room where we were asleep, carry- 
ing a lamp. He woke us and we started up, looking blink- 
ingly at the light. As soon as we were awake he said: 
"Boys, the cows are out; come quick, before they wan- 
der away." 

Soon we are up and dressed and are going down-stairs. 
As we go down he tells us that he has just heard them go 
past his window, and that if we hurry they will not have 
time to wander far. So we boys hurriedly scratch a light 
and hunt for our boots. This is all done in much less time 
than it takes to tell it, and it is not more than a few sec- 
onds after we are dressed, till we are bursting out of the 
door into the darkness. Darkness — for as we came out 
I glanced at the clock and saw the time, 1.30, and then 
this night has been made especially dark by a thunder- 
storm which has just passed over. 

We have a lantern and as we go we stop to peer into the 
darkness for the marauders. We cannot see them; so 
we pass on, out behind the barn, for they are probably 
in the meadow out there. Soon we are bursting through 
the tall, wet grass, up to our waists. We have gone but 
a few^ steps before our clothes are wet through, but that 
does not matter, for the cows are destroying the harvest — 
and then we cannot be much wetter than we are; so we 
keep oh. 

Soon we come upon a cow feeding upon the tall, lux- 

187 



1 88 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

uriant grass. As we come up to her she takes fright and 
begins to run in the wrong direction. We try to pass her, 
but soon she is up with the rest of the herd, and away they 
all go as fast as they can run. They are going straight 
for the field of oats, and they must be turned before they 
reach it. We race through the tall grass, out of breath 
and wet, oh, so wet ! But the cows are having hard work, 
too, and they are slowing up, and presently they are 
turned and driven toward the barn. There they must be 
counted; and we find that six of them are gone. They 
must be brought in, at all costs, and out we go again. But 
we have gone but a short distance when the lantern goes 
out for lack of oil. We must have a hght; so we go back 
to the house to fill the lantern. In a few minutes we are 
out again at the barn. Francis is ahead, and as we round 
the corner of the barn, he shouts: ''Here they are!" We 
turn them in, and as they pass, we count them. There 
are only five — one is still missing. Out we go again for 
the third time, but we do not have to go far, for there she 
is, just discernible in the dim light. She is glad to join 
the others, and we turn her in. 

After we have latched and barred the gate so that they 
cannot open it again, we hurry to the house, for we are 
cold and wet. There, after we have got a little warmer, 
it is proposed that we get something to eat, and we com- 
mence a hunt. We go down cellar and come upon a cake 
which was baked the day before. It looks good; so we cut 
it into three pieces and return to the kitchen. This much 
cake cannot be eaten without some milk; and Francis 
goes out to the can after some. Soon we are enjoying the 
pleasures of a midnight lunch. Oh ! how appetizing ! 



A DAY ON THE FARM 189 

One who has never shared in such a meal cannot fully 
imagine the keen enjoyment of it. Our lunch finished, we 
are off to bed again, having been up just one hour. Soon 
we are asleep, and it seems we have been in bed but a 
minute or two when father comes in to call us again. 

It is half past four, and now the real day's work begins. 
The sun has not yet risen as we go out; but the birds are 
already singing. The storm of the night has passed away, 
and few traces of it are discernible. But the cows must 
be milked before breakfast, and so we are off for the lot. 
There are eight apiece for Francis and me, and seven for 
Paul. This will take us about an hour. The cows are 
sleepy after their ramble in the night, and they have to 
be urged before they will get up. Soon we are busy milk- 
ing, and we are all done and have the horses fed by six 
o'clock. Then a good wash in the clear, cold water pumped 
fresh from the well, and we are ready for breakfast. 

When breakfast is over, father sends us out to mow- 
two with mowing-machines and one with a scythe, the 
latter to mow the fence corners and the patches around 
the trees, which the mower cannot cut. Paul and I harness 
the horses to the machines while Francis is grinding his 
scythe. Our cutter-bars have been sharpened, and we 
all start out together. Having arrived at the field, which 
is about a quarter of a mile from the house, we let down 
the cutter-bars and oil the machines, and then, after throw- 
ing the machine into gear, we are ready to begin. 

We start the horses, and the machines go jiggling mer- 
rily through the grass. As the knives jump quickly back 
and forth, the butt of the stalk is jerked suddenly one 
way and then the other, and then it topples over. It is 



I go COUNTRY LIFE READER 

certainly a sight to make a philosopher ponder, to see so 
many stalks being cut down. 

After we have mowed two swaths around the field, 
one machine continues to go around while the other mows 
the back swath so that the fence corners can be cut. This 
cutting the back swath is usually the difficult job, for 
there are so many ant-hills and woodchuck holes along the 
fence, and then there is also the danger of catching the 
point of the bar in the fence. After I have gone around 
the back swath I follow Paul around on the piece. We 
have to stop once in a while to clear out the bar. A mouse 
nest gets on the bar and clogs the machine, but after 
throwing the machine out of gear we remove the obstruc- 
tion and pass on. 

As Paul stops at the corner to oil, I come up to him, 
and he tells me there is a yellow-jacket's nest on the other 
side of the field. We know what to expect if they are 
stirred up. It is bad enough if they sting you, but it is 
far worse if they aHght on the horses, for they would run 
away, and that is not a desirable accident. 

When we have come around to the place, we stop our 
machines and go ahead to explore. We find the nest — 
a paper ball about as large as a person's head — hanging 
on a brier, which stands just in the edge of the uncut 
grass. There is a solitary wasp crawling around on the 
outside, as a sort of guardsman, I suppose. But we know 
very well that the inside is full of them. We wait a mo- 
ment and this lone scout goes inside, I suppose to report 
that "all's well." As he disappears, Paul hastily pulls out 
his knife and, catching the brier in his left hand, he hur- 
riedly cuts it off and gives it a throw far out into the cut 



A DAY ON THE FARM 



191 



grass. It is all done so quickly that no wasp has time to 
get out, but as the nest goes through the air, several manage 
to scramble out, and go buzzing madly round and round. 
They are too mad to see anything except their nest, and 




The noontime pause. 



they buzz fiercely around it in search of an enemy. We 
hastily mount our machines and pass on, and by the time 
we are come around again they have all alighted on their 
nest, and are crawling about, trying to fathom the mys- 
tery. 

We leave them undisturbed and continue our work. As 
we go up one side of the field, a young woodchuck runs 
clumsily out of the grass over the mown hay and into 
his hole in the fence corner. He has so much of a start 



192 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

that we cannot catch him, and we pass on — though, if 
we could have caught him we would probably have used 
his hide *'to generate horse-power." 

It is getting pretty hot by this time, and the jug of 
water, which we have in the fence corner in the shade, 
is pretty warm, though I suppose it is still *'as wet as 
any." We make a few more rounds and then stop to oil 
up. As we are doing so, we catch the sound of the dinner- 
bell telling us to come to the house. We unhitch the 
horses and start for the house, for we are all hungry — 
horses and men. We water and feed the horses before we 
eat our own dinner. Another refreshing wash in the cold 
water, and we are ready to eat. 

After dinner we go out and He under the shade of the 
maple trees to rest. An hour is given for dinner, and at 
one o'clock we have started for the field again. 

We have been going around twenty acres and the piece 
seems nearly as large as in the morning, though it is per- 
haps only half done. The work in the afternoon is more 
tiresome, as the sun is warm and there is no breeze stirring. 
The horses walk very slowly, and it seems as if no amount 
of urging will make them go faster. The warm sun makes 
one very drowsy, and oh, how good it would be if one 
could but He in the shade of one of those trees and go to 
sleep ! But it is haying time, and there must be no sleep 
from four-thirty to eight, inclusive. 

The afternoon wears away slowly; you hear nothing 
but the rattle of the machines, and see nothing but the 
myriad of timothy stalks falling. But suddenly a rabbit 
jumps from in front of your cutter-bar. He pops out of 
the standing grass and goes bobbing along over the cut 



A DAY ON THE FARM 193 

hay to the pasture. This reminds us that the field is nearly 
done, for the rabbits always work toward the centre of 
the uncut grass, until there remains only a narrow strip 
to be mowed. Then they jump out and go bounding 
along over the grass till they find some place to hide. 
Sometimes we find a nest of young rabbits, which are 
either too scared or too young to run, and then the ma- 
chine must be stopped till they are removed. 

The piece grows rapidly smaller, and soon there re- 
mains but one swath to cut. We finish this, and as we 
are raising our bars we hear the supper-bell. As she hears 
it, one of the horses whinnies in a sort of satisfied way, 
for she is a wise old creature, and she knows that the bell 
tells us to quit for the night. After reaching the house, 
we put the horses in the barn and prepare for supper. 
Supper over, the cows must be milked again and the horses 
tended. We are through by eight o'clock, and we go back 
to the house and wash up again. 

The day's work is done, and it has been a long one- 
fifteen hours and a half. And any one who puts in that 
much time on manual labor will be tired. 

Urban Lavery. 



God made the country and man made the town. 
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
That Hfe holds out to all, should most abound 
And least be threatened in the fields and groves. 

COWPER. 




EVENING AT THE FARM 

Over the hill the farm boy goes. 
His shadow lengthens along the land, 
A giant staff in a giant hand; 
In the poplar tree, above the spring, 
The katydid begins to sing; 

The early dews are falhng; — 
Into the stone-heap darts the mink; 
The swallows skim the river's brink; 
And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
When over the hill the farm boy goes. 

Cheerily calling: 

^Xo', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! 
Farther, farther, over the hill, 
Faintly calling, calling still, 

'Xo', boss! co', boss! coMcoM" 



Into the yard the farmer goes, 

With grateful heart, at the close of day: 

Harness and chain are hung away; 



194 



EVENING AT THE FARM 195 

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough, 
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, 

The cooHng dews are faUing; — 
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, 
The pigs come grunting to his feet, 
And the whinnying mare her master knows, 
When into the yard the farmer goes, 

His cattle calling: 

'^'Co', boss! co', boss! coM co'! coM" 
While still the cow-boy, far away, 
Goes seeking those that have gone astray: 

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! " 

Now to her task the milkmaid goes. 

The cattle come crowding through the gate, 

Lowing, pushing, httle and great; 

About the trough, by the farmyard pump, 

The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, 

While the pleasant dews are falling; — 
The new milch heifer is quick and shy. 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, 
And the white stream into the bright pail flows. 
When to her task the milkmaid goes. 

Soothingly calling: 

"So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so !" 
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool. 
And sits and milks in the twilight cool. 

Saying: "So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so !" 

To supper at last the farmer goes. 
The apples are pared, the paper read, 



196 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

The stories are told, then all to bed. 
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song 
Makes shrill the silence all night long; 

The heavy dews are falling. 
The housewife's hand has turned the lock; 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; 
The household sinks to deep repose, 
But still in sleep the farm boy goes 

Singing, calling: 

" Co', boss ! CO', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! " 
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, 

Murmuring: ^'So, boss ! so !" 

John T. Trowbridge. 




Now to her task the milkmaid goes. 



CLEAN HOME MILK 

Boys that do the milking on the farm do not realize 
how filthy the milk often is when it gets to the house. 
Take a milk-pail from the shelf; go down to the cow 
barn. There is the cow. Throw her down an armful of 
hay to chew, on while you milk, brush off the stool, rub 
off the cow's bag with a wisp of hay if she is especially 
dirty — never mind your hands or the open pail — throw a 
stream of milk onto each palm and begin. Is there a little 
hay and dust in the pail? Never mind; it will strain out. 
When you get through, set the pail down while you drive 
the cows out to pasture. To be sure, they will raise a lot 
of cow-stable dust, and the smell is pretty bad in there; 
but if you set it outside the pigs would get into it. It is 
nearly school time and you have other chores to do. Take 
it to the house and strain it. Mother always doubles the 
strainer cloth, but it takes an awful time for it to run 
through that way. There ! You said the dirt would strain 
out, and look at it there in the cloth ! 

This is a cold-hearted picture of one of the chores the 
farm boy particularly hates. Compare each item with 
your own methods and improve on each. Home milk 
is not always clean milk. 

The boy that milks ought to do a better job than this. 
He ought to bring clean milk into the house. How shall 
he do it ? A clean place to milk, a clean cow, a clean boy, 
and a sanitary milk-pail; these four things are within the 
reach of every farm that can afford a cow. 

I have seen a good many patent milk-pails, mostly in 

197 



198 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



stores, seldom on the farm. The sanitary milk-pails keep 
the dirt out, they don't strain it out. Here is one de- 
scribed by the man who invented it for his own use. This 
pail is tin, and holds ten quarts or so. On one side is a 
spout two and a half inches in diameter and three inches 



"^V 


^^■fel,^ ■ /lft^2^3 


■1 






^\^-'K*- 


■ ■ ' -'r 


/--'"^^:■^''" '•:«--- -.^'-^r. a:;: >-. 



Down in the pasture. 



long. The spout has a tin cover like a baking-powder- 
can cover. To keep the dirt out of the pail the man bought 
a tin pan, just the size to fit tight into the top of the 
pail. Just above the bottom of the pan on one side he 
had a tinner cut eight or ten small holes, like a colander. 
Scald the pail, double the strainer cloth and lay it across 
the top of the pail. Press the pan down on the cloth till it 
goes down into the pail tight, taking care that the edge of 
the cloth comes up all round. Do all this at the house. 
With this pail a clean milker can milk a clean cow in a 
sweet-smelling place and get clean milk. This may look 



CLEAN HOME MILK 



199 



like a pound of prevention, but think of the tons of cure 
it will save. 

There are many boys delivering milk in towns and 
cities. Most of them do their part well. But I believe 
they would like to do it better. Driving from one house 
to another is pretty dull business for a live boy, and un- 
less he has something to think about his mind wanders. 
Why not put some thought on the very business he is en- 
gaged in ? Does he know what milk is — that children's lives 
depend upon the care he gives it ? Does he know that dirt 
in ice and dust from streets may be deadly if they get into 
milk? If dust gets into that Httle puddle that ought not 
to be on top of the bottles, does he wipe it off with a 
dirty rag, ignorant of the danger? If he thought of these 
things and studied out ingenious ways of keeping his bot- 
tles free from dust, life v/ould no longer be dull but inter- 
esting. He would be well started toward good citizenship. 

Mary Rogers Miller. 




The noonday rest. 



IN THE PLUM YARD 

My plum yard is not all a plum yard, but is a chicken- 
yard as well. It is a lively place, where I like to sit in the 
shade of an apple tree that looks over the hedge patroniz- 
ingly at its nephews, the plums. The old hens in the coop, 
when they see me, cluck for me to bring them dainties, 
and the fluffy things called chickens step on my toes con- 
fidingly. These two economies go on nicely together — 
hens and plums; and I ad\ase you in all horticulture to 
find out the things that make and match, for there are 
some things that will not go together at all. A butternut 
tree hates a potato hill and likes a wild blackberry. Plant 
your plum trees in the chicken-yard, or plant your chickens 
in the plum yard, as you please, and you will find that it 
will work to a dot. It is a secret between you and me 
that there is not one fruit under the sun that a hen likes 
better than a gooseberry. It will snip off every one be- 
fore the berries are half-grown; so you will plant your 
gooseberries on the other side of the fence. 

Plum trees will grow close together and bear all the 
better for it; so you can have a number of them on a small 
space. But if they bear full, you had better pull off one 
third or one half of the fruit, so that the rest will be of good 
size and flavor. This is especially necessary if you are 
growing for the market. 

Almost all other fruits carry more chances of being 
damaged or devoured by birds or insects than the plum, 
and other fruits involve you in a longer fight. You are 



IN THE PLUM YARD 201 

never sure of your strawberry crop until you eat it, and, 
as for cherries, they must be covered with mosquito net- 
ting till they are fit to eat. But the plum is so sharply 
assailed by its one particular enemy that you may lose 
the whole crop unless you know how to care for it. I was 
told in Florida that plums would grow there, but that 
you could get no fruit. The people had simply not learned 
the knack of catching the plum-curcuHo. It takes about 
ten or twelve days of jarring, and after that we can, as 
a rule, enjoy seeing our plums swell out and sweeten. 
The way we do this is to make a huge sheet, big enough 
to cover the ground under a large plum tree. This we 
slit down to the middle, and spread it out so that the tree 
stands in the centre. We make a rammer about eight feet 
long, of Hght wood, but strong, and we pad the end till 
it is sure not to bruise the tree. With this we ram or jar — 
not shake — the branch, and the insects fall on the sheet. 
The curculio curls up and plays possum. You must know 
him at sight, catch him quickly, and crush him. His 
shell is hard, and needs a stout pinch. If you have a pet 
hen that will trot around with you, you can feed them to 
her; but be quick or the curcuHo will spread his wings 
and fly away. 

There will still be quite a percentage of plums that 
will be stung. The jarring of the trees should take place 
twice a day — about seven in the morning and four at 
night; but in spite of all precautions the stung fruits will 
soon drop, and should be promptly gathered before the 
grub enters the soil. If he gets into the ground he will 
come out next year a full-grown insect, ripe for mischief. 

The plum tree is subject to what is called the knot — 



202 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

a fungus disease, that causes a swelling and frequently 
destroys limbs or whole trees. Take a sharp knife and 
cut the knot and adjacent wood, as soon as the swelHng 
appears. As a rule, you can entirely master this disease 
if you are prompt and thorough. You may, however, 
have to fight another fungus disease, a ''blight" which 
appears in August or September, generally just after the 
fruit is picked. This bhght destroys the leaves and does 
a great deal of damage to next year's crop. Prevention 
is better than cure in this case, and in order to prevent 
the blight from attacking the trees, they should be sprayed 
with Bordeaux mixture two or three times during the 
season — beginning in May. The spray will do no harm, 
even if there be no danger from the blight. 

E. P. Powell. 



MINE HOST 



My host was a bountiful apple tree; 
He gave me shelter and nourished me 
With the best of fare all fresh and free. 

And light-winged guests came not a few, 
To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew. 
And sang their best songs ere they flew. 

I slept at night on a downy bed 

Of moss, and my host benignly spread 

His own cool shadow over my head. 

Thomas Westwood. 




A BOY'S SONG 

Where the pools are bright and deep, 
Where the gray trout hes asleep, 
Up the river and o'er the lea, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, 
Where the nestlings chirp and flee, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 



Where the mowers mow the cleanest. 
Where the hay lies thick and greenest; 
There to trace the homeward bee. 
That's the way for Billy and me. 
203 



204 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Where the hazel bank is steepest, 
Where the shadow hes the deepest, 
Where the clustering nuts fall free. 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

But this I know, I love to play, 
Through the meadow, among the hay; 
Up the water and o'er the lea. 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

James Hogg. 




CERES AND PROSERPINA 

In ancient times, when the harvests were abundant 
people beheved that it was because Ceres, the goddess of 
the harvests, had given rain and sunshine to the earth. 
And when the cold and rainy or snowy season came, and 
the grass became withered, and the flowers ceased to 
bloom, it was because Ceres was gloomy and sad. 

Ceres, according to the old story, had one daughter, a 
lovely child named Proserpina, whose presence made the 
grass greener, the flowers gayer, and the sunshine brighter 
over all the earth. And when Ceres was absent on her 
tasks of caring for the harvests, Proserpina wandered amid 
the flowers in the fields or played with the sea-nymphs 
in the sand or among the rocks along the shore. One day 
when Proserpina and her companions wxre gathering 
flowers their happy laughter attracted the attention of 
the god Pluto, who was riding by in his chariot. 

Pluto was the god of darkness, and his palace was deep 
down in the underworld, where the Kght of day never 
shone. He was a gloomy fellow and led a lonely life in 
his underground palace; for, although he wooed many of 
the goddesses, none of them was willing to share his 
throne in this shadowy realm. And now when he heard 
the girlish laughter of Proserpina, he stopped his chariot 
and looked around to see whence it came. Peering through 
the bushes by the wayside, he saw Proserpina, and was so 
charmed with her beauty that he resolved at once to 
carry her off to the underworld to be his queen. So he 

205 



2o6 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

seized her, carried her by force to his chariot, and sped 
his horses into a fierce gallop; and, in spite of her strug- 
gles and screams, poor Proserpina was soon carried far 
away from her native fields and her home. 

At length Pluto came to a great river, which was swollen 
to an angry flood so as to bar his course; but, nothing 
daunted, he struck the ground with his great two-pronged 
spear, and straightway there appeared in the earth a 
yawning chasm which opened at once into the under- 
world, and through this the horses and chariot disap- 
peared. 

Upon her return home, Ceres was greatly grieved to 
find that Proserpina was not there. She went forth to 
the fields to search for her, calling for her everywhere, 
and inquiring of all whom she met; but no one had seen 
or heard anything of the lost Proserpina. When night 
came on, she lighted a torch at the flames of Mount ^Etna 
and continued her search through the hours of darkness — 
but all in vain. Day after day passed, but still the dis- 
consolate Ceres would not be comforted. She no longer 
cared for the grass or the flowers or the sunshine. The 
harvests were neglected, the grass withered, the birds 
ceased to sing, the rains fell continuously, and man and 
beast alike suffered sorely for the want of warmth and 
light and food. 

At length, when Ceres, worn out by her long search, 
was one day seated by a fountain which sprang from the 
depths of the earth, she thought she heard a gentle voice, 
and, listening more closely to the murmur of the fountain, 
she at length obtained tidings of her lost child; for the 
fountain, passing up through the realms of Pluto, had 



CERES AND PROSERPINA 207 

caught a glimpse of Proserpina in the palace of the King, 
and, taking pity on Ceres, in gentle accents she told her 
the story of what she had seen. 

Ceres, you may be sure, was glad to learn at length 
where her daughter was and that she was still ahve, though 
she had Httle hope of being able to rescue her from the 
power of Pluto. Nevertheless, she determined to try to 
find her, and at once set out, sadly enough, in search of 
the entrance to Pluto's underground realm. 

In the meantime Proserpina had grown somewhat ac- 
customed to the darkness of Pluto's palace. After all, 
it was not wholly a dismal place, for there was an abun- 
dance of gold and silver and diamonds and all manner 
of precious stones; and Pluto, though stern and forbid- 
ding and gloomy to outward appearance, was not unkind 
at heart, and did his best to make Proserpina happy and 
to lead her to forget her life amid the flowers and sun- 
shine of the earth above. 

When Proserpina had first entered the palace of Pluto 
she would not be consoled, and although the most tempt- 
ing dainties wxre set before her she refused to eat or drink 
until she should be restored to her mother, Ceres. And it 
was wtII that she did so, for it had been decreed by the 
gods that whosoever ate or drank in the realms of Pluto 
should never be permitted to return to the upper world. 
None knew this better than Pluto himself, and in order 
to tempt Proserpina to break her fast he ordered his ser- 
vants to search the earth for the daintiest fruits they 
could find and to place them before her. But although 
they searched far and wide they could find nothing but a 
single withered pomegranate. 



2o8 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

In the meantime the earth was suffering from famine, 
and the children were crying for food; and fathers and 
mothers begged Jupiter to have pity on their sufferings 
and to restore to Ceres her lost child, Proserpina, so that 
she might once more smile upon the earth and make it 
bright with flowers and rich with the golden harvest of 
grain. At length Jupiter grew weary of their pleadings, 
and consented to her return; and Mercury, the fleet-footed 
messenger of the gods, was sent to the palace of Pluto to 
bring her up from the underworld and restore her to her 
mother, Ceres. 

When Mercury reached the palace of Pluto he found 
that he had arrived none too soon; for Proserpina, unable 
longer to resist the pangs of hunger, had rashly tasted 
the withered pomegranate, and, it was found, had eaten 
some of the seeds. Jupiter, although he was King of heaven, 
could not interfere when once his laws were broken; and 
so for every seed she had eaten, Proserpina was condemned 
to spend one month of each year in the palace of King 
Pluto. And this is how it comes that for full six months 
every year Proserpina is forced to return to the under- 
world. Then the good mother, Ceres, mourns once again 
for the lost Proserpina, and the earth brings forth no fruit. 
But when Proserpina returns, the skies become blue and 
sunny, the songs of the birds are heard on every hand, and 
the earth is once more white with the promise of an abun- 
dant harvest, with which Ceres in her gladness is ready 
to bless the earth. 



PART II 
AUTUMN 




^^ 



THE COUNTRY BOY'S INHERITANCE 

''I give and bequeath to boys, jointly and 
severally, all useful idle fields and commons 
where ball may be played; all pleasant 
waters where one may swim; all snow-clad 
hills where one may coast; and all streams 
and ponds where one may fish, or where, 
when grim winter comes, one may skate; to 
have and to hold these same for the period 
of their boyhood; and all meadows with the 
clover blossoms and butterflies thereof; the 
woods with their appurtenances, the squir- 
rels, and the birds, and all echoes and 
strange noises, and all distant places which 
may be visited, together with the adventures 
there found." 

Charles Lounsberry. 




^=^^ 



:.^> 



I'D LIKE TO GO 

It seems to me I'd like to go 

Where bells don't ring, or whistles blow, 

Nor clocks don't strike, nor gongs don't sound. 

And I'd have stillness all around — 

Not real stillness, but just the trees* 
Low whispering, or the hum of bees. 
Or brooks' faint babbling over stones 
In strangely softly tangled tones; 

Or maybe the cricket or katydid. 
Or the songs of birds in the hedges hid 
Or just some such sweet sounds as these 
To fill a tired heart with ease. 

If 'tweren't for sight and sound and smell, 
I'd like the city pretty well; 
But when it comes to getting rest 
I Hke the country lots the best. 

Sometimes it seems to me I must 
Just quit the city's din and dust, 
And get out where the sky is blue — 
And, say, now, how does it seem to you ? 

Eugene Field. 




A country boy and his friends. 



THE COUNTRY BOY 



To be friends with animals is an education in itself, 
and a boy who does not know a horse, a dog, a cat, a pig, 
chickens — the barn-yard family — and the woodland family 
— rabbits, chipmunks, coons, and wildcats, too — all around, 
through, and under, lacks something essential. It is help- 
ful to a boy to know that he can control so big an animal 
as a horse just by the effort of his will. The boy that has 
not a dog friend is to be pitied. A dog paraded on the end 
of a string is no real companion; a dog friend is one with 
whom you have trod the leaf-strewn paths of the wood, 
starting with him at every woodland stir and scurry, 
every scent and footprint. A boy learns quickness when 
he borrows in this way a dog's ears and nose. Be sorry, 
too, for the boy who does not know a robin's egg from a 
wren's, or a swallow's nest from an oriole's; who cannot 
tell the call of the cat-bird from that of the whip-poor-will. 



THE COUNTRY BOY 213 

To be a friend of the trees— to know the birch and the 
beech, the ash and the aspen, the oak and the elm, not 
because you have learned to identify them in the park 
from pictures of their leaves in a book, but because you 
have grown up with certain oaks and elms — that is some- 
thing worth while. 

A country boy's sports, too, help in his making. What 
is there comparable with the journey made by the crowd 
on Saturday mornings in summer, across the field (and 
how the stubble of the wheat hurts your bare feet !) through 
the small woods to the swimming pond for a good splash, 
and contests in speed and endurance, races in water and 
out, unencumbered by garments. Then the silent, crafty 
mornings spent with a rough rod and no reel, at the creek- 
side, in combat with finny antagonists— the fishing. Those 
hours add something to the country boy's equipment, a 
healthy enjoyment of thoughtful, contemplative hours, 
that stand and have stood him in good stead — something 
that the city boy in the rush and rattle can never have. 

Vivian Burnett. 



Off for the fishing pool. 



ACID SOILS 

Buy five cents' worth of blue litmus paper at the drug 
store. When you reach home, dig up a spadeful of moist 
earth from your garden; break a lump in two, place a 
piece of the Htmus paper between the parts of the broken 
lump and press them together firmly. Leave the htmus 
paper there for twenty or thirty minutes. If at the end 
of that time you find that the paper has become pinkish 
or reddish in color, you may be sure that the soil is acid, 
or ''sour.'' 

When the soil is sour you cannot get a good crop of 
clover or of any kind of legume from it, because the bac- 
teria that live on the roots of the clover and supply it 
with food do not thrive in acid soils; and if the bacteria 
do not work properly, they do not supply a sufficient 
amount of nitrogen to enrich the soil. If, then, you find 
that the blue litmus paper turns red, it is a sign that your 
soil is in a poor condition and will not produce the best 
crops. 

The way to overcome the sourness in the soil is to sup- 
ply it with a proper amount of lime; for lime is what is 
known as an alkali, which counteracts the effects of acids. 
When vegetable matter decays in the soil, a certain amount 
of acid is produced, and if the soil does not contain enough 
lime to overcome it, the amount of acid continues to in- 
crease. Some soils contain so much lime that they are 
not likely to become sour; but in the case of other soils, 

214 



ACID SOILS 215 

it IS necessary to add a fresh supply of lime every few 
years to keep them in proper condition. 

But besides the fact that lime counteracts the effect 
of the acid in the soil, there is another reason why the 
soil should be well limed. As we have already seen, the 
three plant-foods in which the soil is most Hkely to be 
lacking are nitrogen, potassium, and phosphorus. Now it 
is often the. case that although there is an abundance of 
potash and phosphorus in the soil, they are ''locked up" 
with other things, so that the plant cannot get at them. 
But when lime is present in the soil, it attacks these com- 
binations and sets a certain amount of potash and phos- 
phorus free, so that the plant may use them. Lime itself 
is used by plants only in small quantities, but it acts as 
a fertiHzer both by making it possible for the soil bac- 
teria to manufacture nitrogen, and by setting potash and 
phosphorus free. 

When the farmer finds that the soil in a certain part of 
his farm is not producing so well as he thinks it should, 
it is worth his while to try the effect of Hming a strip of 
his field to see whether it improves his crops. But if the 
soil is acid, the blue litmus paper will tell the tale; and if 
the farmer's boy wishes to be a help to his father, he will 
be on the watch for sheep-sorrel (or sour-grass) and horse- 
tail, which are two of the weeds that grow most commonly 
in acid soils. 




An old log country school-house. 



A FIELD OF MUSTARD 



It was an old log country school-house, as I knew it, 
situated at the cross-roads a mile east of Martin's Corners. 
The school-yard was full of stumps, and a broken picket 
fence separated it from a bush lot behind. Directly across 
from the school was a field of five acres or so, which formed 
the corner of an ill-kept, broken-down farm. In the sea- 
son of which I write, a crop of oats had been sown in the 
field, but when the time for harvest came, there was Httle 
oats to be seen. The whole field was a briUiant yellow, 
and one might have imagined that it had been sown by 
some perverse enemy with the object of producing a beau- 
tiful harvest of wild mustard. As a matter of fact, the 
mustard was so plentiful and the oats so scarce that the 

216 



A FIELD OF MUSTARD 217 

farmer in charge — it was a rented farm — -did not think it 
worth while to cut the crop; and so it happened that in 
the middle of August when we returned to school we 
found the crop of mustard still standing and rapidly 
ripening. 

It happened that we had for teacher that year a young 
fellow by the name of Morton, the son of a well-to-do 
farmer who lived only half a mile from the school. 

''Boys," said he to us the Friday afternoon after school 
opened, ''if you are willing to help me after hours, I'm go- 
ing to give you a few lessons in agriculture. You see that 
field of mustard. Mr. Armstrong, who owns this farm, has 
agreed to give us half the crops off that field for the next 
three years provided we agree to work the field and kill 
that m_ustard. Let us see — we want a new baseball outfit 
for this school. If we can make five dollars out of the 
field we'll get that, and if we make a hundred we'll 
get—" 

"A phonograph," suggested LesHe Perkins. 

Of course, we all fell in with this idea, but Morton only 
smiled. "I said, '// we make a hundred,' remember. 
What do you say, then? Will you help?" 

Help ! There wasn't one of us who wouldn't have gone 
over that fence with a handspring, and begun pulling 
mustard on the spot. But Morton wisely held us in. 

"Before we begin," he urged, "we must learn all about 
mustard — what kind of plant it is, how it grows, what its 
seeds are like, when it comes to seed, and how we can kill 
it. LesHe, bring me over a dozen mustard plants and we'll 
begin right now." 

Those were the most interesting lessons in nature study, 



2i8 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

agriculture, or whatever you choose to call it, that I ever 
expect to have. On this particular afternoon we sat down 
by the roadside, each with a mustard stalk in hand, and 
under Morton's directions we examined the whole plant — 
the roots, the hairy stem, the branches, the leaves and the 
flowers, and finally the seed-pods and seeds; for flowers 
and seeds are found on the plant at the same time. Be- 
fore we looked at the seeds Morton asked us to guess how 
many seeds each plant would produce, and our guesses 
ran all the way from fifty to five hundred. 

''Let me give you a question in arithmetic," said Mor- 
ton. ''Suppose I had the whole crop of seeds from Percy's 
plant here, and suppose I had a machine that would drop 
one seed every three feet, I should have to go about nine 
miles before the seeds were all gone. Now, how many 
seeds are there?" 

We figured it out then and there, and found that the 
answer was about fifteen thousand seeds. 

"And now," said Morton, "I have a harder question 
for you to work out at home. Supposing that there are 
teii mustard plants in every square foot of that five-acre 
field, how many plants are there? And if aU this year's 
seeds grow, how many plants will there be next year?" 

On Monday morning when we reached school we found, 
to our surprise, that Morton had been over on Saturday 
with his binder and had cut and bound the mustard and 
oats together. That evening we shocked up the sheaves 
in piles in different parts of the field, and a few days later, 
when they had time to dry out, we made bonfires of the 
piles. 

The next Friday afternoon we had another lesson, and 



A FIELD OF MUSTARD 219 

this time we talked about the way the seeds of the mustard 
could be killed. The first thing Morton tried to make 
plain to us was the difference between an annual, such as 
mustard, and the other kinds of weeds known as bien- 
nials and perennials. ''Since mustard is an annual," he 
explained to us, ''we must make sure to kill every mus- 
tard plant that comes up — and we know that when once 
the plant is cut down it will not trouble us again, like the 
thistle and the burdock." 

"Then all we have to do," said Leslie, "is to kill all the 
mustard plants that come up next spring, isn't it?" 

Morton looked at Leslie with something of a smile. 
""The trouble is," he explained, "that all the seeds don't 
come up at the same time. A mustard seed won't grow 
unless it gets air and moisture and sunshine, so that only 
the seeds that are close to the surface will grow. Suppose 
you kill them. Just as soon as you begin to plough the 
ground you are sure to bring thousands more to the sur- 
face, and there you have a fresh crop of mustard plants. 
Over in that field, there are mustard seeds in the ground 
for a foot deep, and if you were to leave that ground for 
twenty years without ploughing, and then stir up the soil, 
some of those same seeds would begin to grow." 

By this time we began to see that we had a big task 
ahead of us; but this did not dampen our enthusiasm. 

"The only thing for us to do," continued Morton, "is 
to try to make all these mustard seeds grow, and then kill 
the plants before they come to flower. That means that 
we have to keep turning the soil up, deeper and deeper, 
so as to bring fresh seeds to the surface, until all the 
seeds have sprouted." 



2 20 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

^'When shall be begin?" asked Lloyd Jones. ''Next 
spring?" 

''No, my boy," replied Morton. "We'll begin right 
now." 

And then he explained to us his plan of operations. To 
go over the field to a depth of two or three inches only 
with a gang-plough and harrow, wait till the seeds had 
sprouted, cultivate and harrow again, and perhaps again, 
and plough once more before the end of the season. As 
for us, it was our business to go over the fence corners 
and clear out all the weeds. Then in the next spring and 
summer our proper work would come; for, according to 
Morton's plan, the field was to be planted with corn, 
which we were to keep clean by cultivating and hoeing. 

There is no need to go into the minute details of our 
year's struggle with the mustard. The ground was 
ploughed and harrowed and cultivated, and cultivated 
and harrowed and ploughed. The corn was planted and 
cultivated and hoed, and cultivated and hoed again, in a 
way that only twelve strong boys can hoe it. If it had 
not been for Morton we should have given up more than 
once in despair; but he kept us at it, and worked with 
us — in our hoeing matches he always counted for two — ^so 
that even in the holiday season we kept at the good work; 
and even if our corn didn't grow that year as well as might 
have been expected, we had a good deal of healthful ex- 
ercise and we enjoyed our work. And, last but not least, 
after the seed corn and other expenses were paid we had 
enough to buy our baseball outfit and a snug nest-egg to 
go toward the coveted phonograph. 

That fall the process of ploughing, harrowing, and cul- 



A FIELD OF MUSTARD 221 

tivating was continued, and in the spring we put in a crop 
of wheat with clover. Our work this summer was not so 
hard, since it consisted simply in going through the wheat 
and pulhng out the mustard by hand ;* and we did it thor- 
oughly. Our grain crop was good, and netted us easily 
another sixty dollars. 

By the end of the second year some of the older boys 
had left the school, but those of us that were left watched 
the clover-field closely for any mustard plants that might 
appear; and in the fall when the field was ploughed under 
again, Morton went over it several times as usual with the 
harrow to kill any fresh plants that might come up. We 
all knew, of course, that, even after our three years' hard 
work, the field would need careful watching for some 
years to come; but we had filled our contract to the satis- 
faction of Mr. Armstrong, and at the same time had earned, 
and more than earned, our school phonograph; and, best 
of all, we had learned many useful lessons of perseverance 
and hard work, which are among the most important 
subjects on the farmers' out-of-doors curriculum. 



A man was once walking with a farmer through a beau- 
tiful field, when he happened to see a tall thistle on the 
other side of the fence. In a second, over the fence he 
jumped, and cut it off close to the ground. ''Is that your 
field?" asked his companion. ''Oh, no!" said the farmer; 
*'bad weeds do not care much for fences, and if I should 
leave that thistle to blossom in my neighbor's field I 
should soon have plenty in my own." 

* Mustard and many other weeds in the grain-field may be destroyed by spraying with a 
solution of iron sulphate. The solution takes the moisture from the weeds but does not 
injure the grain. 



There stands a field of golden sheaves. 



HARVEST SONG 

There stands a field of golden sheaves, 
To the very edge of the world it heaves. 
Grind, mill, grind ! 

The wind falls in the wide land, 
Many mills at the sky-edge stand. 
Grind, mill, grind ! 

There comes a sunset dark and red, 
Many poor people are crying for bread, 
Grind, mill, grind ! 

The night holds in its lap the storm. 
To-morrow the men to work will swarm. 
Grind, mill, grind. 

Clean are the fields swept, never again 
A man shall cry in hunger-pain. 
Grind, mill, grind ! 

Richard Dehmel (Trans., Jethro Bithell). 



THE BOY WHO MADE THE REAPER 

The first successful reaping-machine made in America 
was invented by a boy named Cyrus H. McCormick. 
His father owned what was a very large farm in Virginia, 
and Cyrus helped in the fields. His father had a small 
blacksmith shop beside the house, in which he had a forge 
and all the tools that blacksmiths use. Cyrus Hked to 
watch his father in the shop, and he hked to play with the 
tools when he could get his father's consent. 

As he grew older he learned to use the various tools, 
and finally his father let him do some of the work in the 
shop. Cyrus took to this kind of work and became quite 
expert in making things. 

In those days, you know, they cut the grain with a 
scythe and a cradle. The cradle consisted of several long 
wooden teeth on the back of the scythe. On these teeth 
the grain was caught, and then with a sudden shake of 
the handle the grain was deposited on the ground in bunches 
instead of lying in rows. 

This was hard work; so, naturally, Cyrus tried to think 
of a way to make a machine that would do it by horse- 
power. Cyrus's father had been thinking along the same 
lines, and had tried to make a machine; but it wouldn't 
work. When the father finally gave it up, Cyrus planned 
a machine entirely different. He built it without his father's 
knowing it, and tried it out one fall. It was not entirely 
a success, but he made some changes and tried it out again. 
Finally, in 1831, he had made his first successful reaper. 

223 



2 24 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

He wasn't entirely satisfied, however, and he kept on 
making improvements until, in 1834, he had a machine 
good enough to patent. He secured a patent in Washing- 
ton, and then tried to sell some of the reapers for thirty 
dollars apiece. No one would buy. He advertised in one 
of the local papers, and gave a demonstration on one of 
the farms near by; but people were not accustomed to 
seeing machines on a farm, and no one thought he could 
run a reaper if he did buy it. 

In 1839 he invited a number of the farmers to see the 
reaper work. It cut two acres in an hour. That was 
really wonderful in those days, but still no one would 
buy. 

The next year, however, a man at Egypt, Virginia, de- 
cided to invest thirty dollars in the reaper. He took it 
home and cut his grain with entire satisfaction. Naturally 
he praised it and told Cyrus what a good machine it was. 

Cyrus told other farmers what this man had said, and 
finally, the next year, persuaded seven farmers to buy 
reapers. He had raised the price, too, to one hundred 
dollars. By working hard he sold twenty-nine machines 
in 1843, 2-nd fifty the next year. He used all kinds of 
legitimate means of making sales. When he found a man 
who really needed a reaper, he stayed with him until he 
purchased one. 

Later he got other patents for improvements he made, 
and then he moved to Chicago to build a large factory in 
which he might make more reapers in one year than some 
folks had thought could possibly be used in ten. He didn't 
have enough money to build a factory when he went to 
Chicago, but he went to the mayor and told him about 



2 26 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

the reaper. The mayor had some money to invest, and he 
thought this would be a good way to make more with it; 
so he gave Mr. McCormick twenty-five thousand dollars 
to build a factory, and reapers were made pretty fast from 
that time on. Mr. McCormick devoted much of his time 
to planning ways of selling the machines, and was very 
successful. 

Finally the mayor and McCormick decided to dissolve 
their partnership, and Mr. McCormick gave him fifty 
thousand dollars for his share. After that the factory was , 
run by McCormick and his two brothers. 

The old reaper was not as good as it might be, however. 
The improvement Mr. McCormick wanted to make was 
an attachment that would bind the grain into bundles. 
It had been necessary for men to do that by hand, and it 
was tiresome and expensive work. But it was difficult 
to make a machine that would tie knots as a man could, 
and McCormick was not able to develop the attachment 
he wanted. Finally a man by the name of Appleby made 
a machine that bound the grain into bundles and tied 
them. Wire was used at first, but later a binding twine, 
very similar to the twine we use to-day, was made and 
proved more successful than the wire. That attachment 
is still used on the grain-binders of to-day. Very little 
change has been made in it. It made a big difference in 
the use of the machines, however, for every one who saw 
or heard of the work it did wanted one. 

McCormick was not satisfied to sell his machines in 
America alone; so he took some of them to England to 
the first great World's Fair, which was held in London. 
Every one there was interested in it, and he was able to 



THE BOY WHO MADE THE REAPER 227 

establish several branch houses in Europe where the ma- 
chines could be sold. 

In all the years that McCormick was making so. much 
money he never ceased to work hard. He was busy all 
the time, always working out some methods to make the 
machines better or to sell more. And when he died the 
last thing he said was: "Work, work!" 

John Y. Beaty. 



THE FARMER'S CREED 

I beheve in a permanent agriculture, a soil that shall 
grow richer rather than poorer from year to year. 

I beheve in hundred-bushel corn and in fifty-bushel 
wheat, and I shall not be satisfied with anything less. 

I beheve that the only good weed is a dead weed, and 
that a clean farm is as important as a clean conscience. 

I beheve in the farm boy and in the farm girl, the farmer's 
best crops and the future's best hope. 

I beheve in the farm woman, and will do all in my power 
to make her hfe easier and happier. 

I beheve in a country school that prepares for country 
life, and a country church that teaches its people to love 
deeply and live honorably. 

I believe in community spirit, a pride in home and neigh- 
bors, and I will do my part to make my own community 
the best in the State. 

I believe in the farmer, I believe in farm life, I believe 
in the inspiration of the open country. 

I am proud to be a farmer, and I will try earnestly to 
be worthy of the name. 

Frank I. Mann 



THE CORN SONG 

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 

Heap high the golden corn ! 
No richer gift has Autumn poured 

From out her lavish horn ! 

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers. 

Our ploughs their furrows made, 
While on the hills the sun and showers 

Of changeful April played. 

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, 

Beneath the sun of May, 
And frightened from our sprouting grain 

The robber crows away. 

All through the long, bright days of June 

Its leaves grew green and fair. 
And waved in hot midsummer's noon 

Its soft and yellow hair. 

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, 

Its harvest-time has come, 
We pluck away the frosted leaves, 

And bear the treasure home. 

There, when the snows about us drift, 

And winter winds are cold. 
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift. 

And knead its meal of gold. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 
228 



AN ACRE OF WHEAT 

I think all the farmers in the township knew of the 
competition between Hill and me concerning that model 
field of wheat. At least every farmer that passed, slowed 
down to a walk, or even stopped altogether, so that the 
driver might look over the fence and ''see how the wheat 
was doing"; and if either Hill or I went to the post-office 
of an evening we were targets for serious questions as 
well as for good-natured jesting as to the results of our 
experiments in growing wheat. 

It came about in this way: Hill is a farmer of the good, 
old-fashioned kind who has never made a study of farm- 
ing as a science, and who has always been ready to poke 
fun at what he calls our ''new-fangled methods." Hill 
is my second cousin, and during the year that I lived on 
the farm next to him we argued a good deal about our 
different methods. But neither of us was convinced by 
the arguments of the other, and we agreed at last to settle 
the matter by experiment; or, to put it in other words, 
Hill laid a wager with me that he could grow a better 
acre of fall wheat than I. The conditions were that the two 
acres were to be side by side, just where our two farms 
adjoined, and that each of us was to have a free hand to 
do anything he pleased to increase the amount. The pro- 
ceeds from the two acres were to go to the one securing 
the larger yield. 

We had chosen this particular strip of ground chiefly 
because the soil there was a good clay loam, which is usually 

229 



230 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

found to be the best soil for growing wheat, but partly 
also because both fields were fresh, having been used that 
year for a crop of peas. As soon as the peas were gathered 
in, we measured off the two plots very carefully, and as 
all the other details had already been arranged we were 
at once off to a good start. 

I knew that if I were to succeed against a ''common- 
sense" farmer like Hill, it could only be by exercising 
greater care in preparing the ground and in choosing and 
sowing the seed. After our seed was once planted we 
could do practically nothing to make the yield any greater. 
The first question I had to decide was whether I should 
use any fertilizer. Hill manured his ground well, but in- 
stead of spreading the manure at once, he left it in piles, 
and as a result after a week of rain much of its strength 
had soaked into the ground under the piles. I had the 
advantage of using a ''spreader" to lay it on evenly. But 
in addition to the manure, I provided commercial fer- 
tilizers in case the ground should be lacking in the potash, 
phosphoric acid, and nitrogen that are essential to the 
growth of the wheat plants. 

Having provided fertilizers, I had next to decide when 
I should plough the ground. Hill was in no hurry, and 
left the ploughing till late; but I had been taught to 
plough early so as to give the furrow slice time to settle, 
and I began to prepare my ground in August, a full 
month before the time for sowing. It seemed to me that 
my ground was rather stiff and lumpy, and as an extra 
precaution I rolled it before harrowing. When I had fin- 
ished harrowing I found that I had a good firm under- 
soil which would hold moisture, covered over by a layer 



AN ACRE OF WHEAT 231 

of fine loam two or three inches deep. During the next 
few weeks I harrowed my plot regularly once a week, 
partly to prevent any weeds from springing up and partly 
to expose the soil to the air and to keep the surface fresh 
and moist. Hill, in the meantime, had left his ploughing 




I did my sowing with a drill. 

till late, and as he did not roll his ground, or harrow it 
more than once, he was quite ready to laugh at me for 
my pains. 

'^When you have farmed as long as I have," he per- 
sisted, ''you'll learn that there's such a thing as being 
over-particular and you'll find out that these new-fangled 
notions of yours don't pay." 

When we laid our wager we agreed that we should both 
sow the same kind of wheat, so that neither of us might 
have any advantage in choosing any special variety, but 
I at least took pains to see that I had a good quality of 
seed, with kernels large and plump, and free from signs 



232 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

of weeds. We had, of course, to use our own judgment 
as to how much seed we should sow. Every kernel of 
grain, as all farmers know, sends up first a single shoot; 
and then if the soil is favorable and if there is plenty of 
roorh, a number of other shoots will spring up from the 
same root, so that a single seed will give several heads of 
grain. When the stalks multiply in this way the grain 
is said to ''stool" or ''tiller." Hill, in my opinion, did not 
usually sow thickly enough, but depended upon the stool- 
ing of the wheat to give him a good crop. I had been 
taught to use plenty of seed and when the time came for 
sowing I used nearly two bushels of seed wheat, although 
Hill used little more than half that amount. Hill was 
inchned to laugh at me, too, because I did my sowing with 
a drill. The old-fashioned way, he boasted, was good 
enough for him; and so he scattered his grain broadcast 
and covered it with the harrow. But whatever else might 
happen, I was at least confident that my acre of wheat 
was more evenly sown and better covered than his could 
possibly be without the use of the drill. 

I had finished my seeding both in my model plot and 
on the rest of my farm before the end of September, and 
as Hill did not plant till ten days later, my grain was the 
first to appear, and before the winter set in it had a good 
growth. But Hill's field looked well, too, even if it did 
seem slightly less strong than mine, and it was much too 
early yet to make predictions. 

It was a good year for wheat, and as the time of harvest 
approached, both fields appeared to be in excellent condi- 
tion. In order that the test might be absolutely fair, the 
owner of the farm across the road, who had taken a keen 



AN ACRE OF WHEAT 



233 



interest in the wager from the very first, agreed to act 
as judge; and it was left to him to do the cutting, storing, 
and threshing of the grain. Of course the farmers in the 
neighborhood had taken sides and had discussed among 
themselves the methods we used, and compared them 
with their own. Indeed, most of them were almost as 
eager as either Hill or I to measure the results, and on 
the day appointed for threshing it seemed as if half the 
farmers in the township were present. 

Hill's grain was threshed first and, to the surprise of 
every one, turned out a full 36 bushels. Would mine go 
more? It was an anxious half -hour, but as box after box 
was emptied, I crept slowly up — ^S, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43 — 
and a half ! Hill had thirty acres in wheat that year, and 
with the market at ninety cents a bushel, it was an easy 
matter for him to figure out his loss ! 







It was a good year for wheat. 




The fruits of autumn. 

THE SONG OF MILO, THE FARM-HAND 

O Demeter, abounding in fruit and ears of the harvest, 
Well may this fiejd be worked and yield a crop beyond 

measure ! 
Hard, bind hard, ye binders, the sheaves, lest ever a passer 
Say, ''These men are poor sticks, and their pay is cash 

out of pocket." 
Toward the north wind let your sw^ath of grain in the 

cutting 
Look, or else to the west, for thus the ear will grow fuller. 
Threshers, threshing the corn, should shun the slumbers 

of noonday; 
That is the very hour when the chaff flies off from the 

wheat stalk. 
Reapers, begin your toil when the tuft lark soars from 

the meadow: 

Cease when he sleeps: besides, in the heat of the day 

take your leisure. t- r- o 

-' E. C. Stedman. 

234 



THE APPLE HARVEST 

You see each day through September that the apples 
are getting larger and redder or more golden. Nature 
never forgets the beautiful in preparing the useful; and 
so beautiful is the orchard hanging full of apples that it 
seems almost a sacrilege to pluck them. But the old man 
who has seen this ripening sixty times retold, says: ''Yes, 
we must be ready; it will not do to have other work in 
the way; the ladders and the barrels must be looked after, 
and the cellar must be prepared for storing the apples." 

The modern apple tree seldom grows over twenty-five 
feet high, and can be fully, picked with a twenty-foot 
ladder. My orders are: ''Lay every apple into the basket; 
do not toss or drop it one inch. When the basket is level 
full, without heaping, come down, and lay the apples one 
by one into the wagon on a blanket or some soft hay. 
Never pour the fruit and never put in an apple that has 
fallen, no matter how sound it looks." 

The picker will protest : "What! not pour smoothly 
over my hands?" 

"No, sir, not even with dehcacy. I will furnish the 
time — only do you never pour or drop my apples." 

The ordinary man is quite unprepared for this sort of 
care, but it is your only way of getting a profitable crop 
out of your orchard. Handle apples like eggs and there 
is money in the orchard every time; but break one cell 
in an apple and you have started decay. It may not show 
for some weeks, but that apple will not keep all winter — • 

235 



236 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



not even if it be a Baldwin. When the basket is emptied 
into the bin from the wagon there should be the same 
judgment and care. As you hft the apples from the wagon, 
sort them into three grades: No. 3 for cider; No. 2 for 




Down in the orchard. 



early sale; No. i as absolutely perfect apples for storage 
or barrelhng. It is a beautiful piece of work from first to 
last, but it permits no rudeness at any stage. 

Before the apples are stored, the cellar must be thoroughly 
scoured and ventilated. So we wash the bins with soap 



THE APPLE HARVEST 237 

and spray them with formahn, and we do not leave a smell 
of must or mould anywhere, for an apple hates rank odors 
and it soon loses its own distinctive flavor in their presence. 
An apple cellar is a delightsome place, or it ought to 
be. In it there is no storage of vegetables or of kitchen 
affairs. The ideal cellar should have a brook running 
through it if that were possible, for it is not the dry cellar 
that best keeps the fruit. It should not be mouldy, but 
it should not be dry. It should have plenty of windows; 
but these are for summer use, and in winter should never 
be opened. When the fruit is once in storage, the windows 
should be both closed and darkened, and should remain 
so till the last apples are disposed of in May or June. The 
walls of this cellar should be unusually thick, and it should 
be entirely separate from the house; for the temperature 
must be kept very near, or just above, freezing. It is 
possible for a farmer to have a cellar of this sort under 
his carriage-house or some part of his barns; but it should 
not be placed anywhere where the odors of the stable 
can reach the fruit. Burying apples in dug-outs is satis- 
factory, where there is no better provision for them, but 
they will quickly gather an earthy flavor. 

E. P Powell. 



Sweetest memories of hfe cluster about the apple orchards. 
It [the apple tree] is a wonderful tree standing alone on a 
hillside, haunted by boys, and a favorite place for robins' 
nests. But an orchard of apple trees, standing in long, 
long rows all over the slope that looks down into a valley 
full of homes, is a gift surpassing all others for human 
ownership. 



APPLE TIME 

Now is the season when red apples gleam 
Amid the bronze, still leaves, or one by one, 

When the wind stirs, fall to the orchard grass, 
There to be mellowed in the drowsy sun. 

And one will gather them to cellar bins. 
The deep, dim, apple-odored cellar bins. 

Where they may lie to wait those happy tides 
When festal fun and winter cheer begins. 

And one will make the happy juices run. 
Golden and shining from the presses' lips, 

While school-boys in the early frosty morn 
Stand by, to taste from eager finger-tips. 

Now is the season of the apple's wealth; 

Then, friend, let this be your devout desire: 
To walk the sunny hills by day, at night 

To sit with apples by your open fire. 

Arthur L. Phelps. 



238 




Noisily down the lane comes the traction-engine. 



THRESHING 

Noisily down the lane comes the traction-engine haul- 
ing the huge grain separator to the barn-yard. All is in 
readiness and soon is heard the cheerful '' chug-chug" 
of the machines at work. The whirring wheels and rapidly 
revolving cylinders fascinate the boy. He watches every 
movement and asks eager questions of the men. Will- 
ingly he helps to store away the grain pouring so swiftly 
from the machine; and when the threshing is all over and 
the last shrill whistle of the engine is heard far down the 
road, he sighs with regret that one of the most interesting 
and exciting events of the year is over. 

But threshing was not always done in such a speedy 
and interesting way. Hundreds and hundreds of years 
ago, when warlike Celtic tribes burned their grain stalks 
and then gathered up the parched grain from among the 

239 



240 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

ashes, perhaps the little Celtic lads watched the process 
with wide open eyes; but you would consider that a tame 
sort of threshing! Yet it was threshing; for the separa- 
tion of grain from its straw, by any means whatever, is 
threshing. 

This simple method of threshing by burning the straw 
was used when the quantity of grain was great enough 
to permit; but where only a small quantity of grain was 
grown, it was rubbed out by hand. A little later, men be- 
gan to form the stalks into bundles, and then they sepa- 
rated the grain from the straw by beating these bundles 
against the hard earth. 

But the Egyptians and the Israelites found a better 
way. They used to choose a hard piece of ground that 
was on a higher level than its surroundings, and around 
it they built a circular wall to form an inclosure. The 
grain stalks were spread on this ''floor," which was from 
fifty to one hundred feet in diameter, and oxen were driven 
round and round to tread out the grain. You wiH see the 
reason why a high piece of ground was chosen. It was 
because they wanted to m.ake use of the winds to blow 
away the chaff. But while this method of threshing was 
a great improvement over the earlier ways, it was very 
wasteful, for a considerable amount of grain was trodden 
into the ground by the hoofs of the oxen. Yet threshing 
is done in this way still in Persia, in India, and in somic 
parts of southern Europe. 

Other races used a threshing sledge. This was in some 
cases an ordinary sledge with a ridged bottom, and it 
was drawn over the grain by oxen. The better sledges 
had heavy frames, on which were mounted three or more 



THRESHING 241 

spiked rollers, which revolved as the sled was drawn along. 
This kind of threshing may still be seen in some parts of 
the Orient, although it, too, is a wasteful operation. 

At length some one thought of a new plan, and began 
to use a special sort of stick with which to beat out the 
grain. Little by Httle these sticks were improved, until 
at last it became quite the common thing to use a staff 
(about five feet long), to which was attached by a flexible 
thong, a piece of heavier, thicker wood (about thirty 
inches long), known as the swingle, or beater. This thresh- 
ing instrument was called a flail; and it has been in use 
up to the days of our grandfathers. When the flail was 
used, the straw was raked away; and the wheat was 
cleaned of chaff by tossing the mixture in the air, so as 
to allow the grain to fall to the earth and the chaff to 
blow away. In this way a man might, on an average, 
thresh and clean twelve or fifteen bushels of grain in a 
day. 

But this slow process has given way to one by which 
nearly a hundred times that amount may be threshed in 
the same length of time. About the beginning of the 
eighteenth century, machines began to take the place of 
hand labor in many kinds of work. The first machines 
that were invented for threshing grain were operated by 
water-power, but all were failures. At last, however, in 
1786, a Scotchman named Andrew Meikle succeeded in 
making a machine that did the work effectively by means 
of horse-power. 

Since then the threshing-machine has been continually 
improved. With the introduction of the steam-engine, 
during the past century, came the invention of the steam- 



242 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



thresher and the traction-engine; and now we have com- 
pHcated threshers with band-cutters, feeders, stackers, 
grain-measurers, loaders, straw-burners, and many other 
devices for overcoming the hard labor and discomfort 
of threshing. Andrew Meikle's first machine would appear 
very crude and clumsy compared with those now in use; 
and how the Persian or the Hindoo, still accustomed to 
the old, slow, tedious, wasteful methods, would stare, if 
he were to walk into one of our Western farmyards on 
threshing day ! 

M. B. Stevenson. 




The steam-thresher. 




Ploughing — the old way. 



THE PLOUGH 

From Egypt behind my oxen 

With their stately step and slow, 
Northward and east and west I went, 

To the desert and the snow; 
Down through the centuries one by one 

Turning the clod to the shower, 
Till there's never a land beneath the sun 

But has blossomed behind my power. 

I slid through the sodden rice-fields 

With my grunting humpbacked steers; 
I turned the turf of the Tiber plain 

In Rome's imperial years. 
I was left in the half-drawn furrow 

When Goriolanus came, 
Leaving the farm for the Forum's stir 

To save a nation's name. 
243 



244 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Over the sea to the north I went, 

White chffs and a sea-board blue, 
And my path was glad in the Enghsh grass 

As my stout red Devons drew. 
My path was glad in the English grass, 

For behind me rippled and curled 
The corn that was life to the sailor-men 

That sailed the ships of the world. 

And later I went to the north again, 

And day by day drew down 
A httle more of the purple hills 

To join my kingdom brown. 
And the whaups wheeled out to the moorlands, 

But the gray gulls stayed with me. 
Where my Clydesdales drummed a marching song 

With their feathered feet on the lea. 

Then the new lands called me westward; 

I found in the prairies wide, 
A toil to my stoutest daring. 

And a foe to test my pride. 
But I stooped my strength to the stiff black loam, 

And I found my labor sweet ; 
And I loosened the soil that was trampled firm 

By a million buffaloes' feet. 



From Egypt behind my oxen, 
With stately step and slow, 



THE PLOUGH 

I have carried your weightiest burden, 
Ye toilers that reap and sow ! 

I am the Ruler, the King, 
And I hold the world in fee, 

Sword upon sword may ring, 

But the triumph shall rest with me ! 



245 



Will Ogilvie. 




Ploughing — the new way. 



THE GRAIN ROBBERS 

Did you ever hear of a wheat-field full of robbers, each 
choking as well as robbing its victim ? Every year millions 
of dollars are lost in grain-fields by robbers of this sort, 
and yet you may pass, again and again, a field in which 
they are at work, without seeing one of them or hearing 
a sound ! For these thieves are so tiny and ca'rry on their 
plundering so quietly as to attract little attention. When 
the farmer sees reddish or black spots breaking through 
the straw of his grain, he knows the robbers are at work; 
and he may shake his head sadly, and perhaps say to his 
neighbor, ''I see signs of rust on my crops" — ^for ''rust" 
is the name by which these marauders are known. 

Let us follow one of these stealthy robbers on its de- 
stroying way. If you were to examine, in spring, some of 
the previous year's wheat straw which had been affected 
by rust, you might see certain peculiar black streaks. 
Look at these through a microscope and you will see that 
the streaks are made up of a mass of tiny bodies. These 
are called spores. They have thick coats, which enable 
them to Hve through the winter. In spring they begin to 
sprout and produce other Httle spores, which are called 
sporids. 

Along comes the wind, which carries off these little 
sporids and lodges them on the leaves of plants. Some 
of them fall upon the leaves of the barberry-bush, which 
is especially suited to their growth; and here the sporids 
push out small tubes into the tissues of the leaves, and 

246 



THE GRAIN ROBBERS 247 

branch out in a sort of net-work. Soon a bright yellow 
spot shows on the under-sides of the leaves and the micro- 
scope shows this spot to be made up of little cups, in clus- 
ters; and in each little cup are small yellow spores. This 
is the first stage in the growth of rust. 

These yellow summer spores are, in their turn, started 
oflf on their travels by the wind; and if they settle on grow- 
ing wheat, oats, or other grain, they at once begin to find 
their way into the plant through the breathing-pores. 
They greedily take for themselves the sap which ought 
to go to nourish the grain. The roots of the grain plant 
go on faithfully taking in the raw materials from the soil, 
to be made over into plant tissue; yet the plant starves, 
because the food is stolen by these hungry spores. 

Now, indeed, follows a struggle ! For, even though handi- 
capped by these robbers, the wheat may grow. If the 
weather is clear and bright, it may ripen without showing 
any sign of its struggle. But if the weather is damp and 
sultry, the robber-rust gains the victory, and cuts off the 
victim's supply of air by fiUing the breathing-pores with 
an immense number of rough red spores. It is these spores 
that the farmer dreads to see — for the summer wind may 
scatter them far and wide to continue their deadly work 
in every field they reach. This is the second stage in the 
growth of rust. 

The growth of the successful summer spore continues 
until late in summer. Then the hlack streaks are pro- 
duced by the formation of the winter spores which are 
to preserve the life of the parasite robber through the 
cold of winter. 

Is the farmer helpless before this robber- rust? Has 



248 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

he no way of protecting his grain? Nothing can be done 
after the rust has established itself in the growing crops; 
but, just as we protect our homes from robbery by making 
it diflficult for robbers to get at our belongings, so the 
farmer may do something to discourage this troublesome 
rust. If the straw of rusty grain is completely rotted, the 
winter spores will not be so likely to sprout in the spring. 
And if the soil is well-drained, and attention given to all 
the conditions which tend to produce healthy plants, the 
grain will have a better chance of winning in the struggle 
with its enemy. 

M. B. Stevenson. 



AUTUMN 



Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad, 
As though he joyed in his plenteous store, 
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad. 
That he had banished hunger, which tofore 
Had by the body oft him pinched sore: 
Upon his head a wreath, that was enrolled 
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore: 
And in his hand a sickle he did hold, 
To reap the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold. 

Edmund Spenser. 



THE WANDERERS 

If you were to ask which is the most interesting do- 
mestic animal on the farm, I should, I think, name the 
turkey. There is at least one time in the year when it 
is, you will admit, very interesting — when it appears on 
the table, at a Thanksgiving or a Christmas dinner, brown 
and tender, with savory dressing and cranberry sauce. 
And then you begin to wonder whatever a Christmas 
dinner could have been Hke before Columbus discovered 
America in 1492, when there was no turkey and no potato 
to go with it. 

Yes, turkeys had their first home in America, and not 
in Turkey in Europe or Turkey in Asia, as I used to imagine 
when I was a boy at school. It seems to me I should like 
to have gone hunting in those days, in one of the Mexican 
jungles, with the chance of coming on a covey of wild tur- 
keys as a part of the day's game. And if I had managed 
to bring down one of them — a big, sixteen-pound bronze 
fellow — ^I should have been satisfied with my bag for the 
day. What a stir a flock of wild turkeys must have made 
when suddenly startled from their feeding-ground in the 
underbrush or from their perches in the lowest branches 
of the trees in the jungle ! 

When he was a wild, jungle bird, the turkey, of course, 
got his food for himself, and wandered sometimes a long 
distance in search of it. Even yet, on the farm, one of 
the first rules for bringing up a brood of turkeys is, "Give 
them range," for they still like to follow so far as they can 

249 



250 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

their old wild way of living; and a flock of turkeys will 
take the run of the farm and the woods, and sometimes 
of the whole neighborhood. But there is one good thing 
about these wanderings — the flock of turkeys seldom need 
to be fed at home; and since they hve chiefly on bugs 
and grasshoppers, they do a good deal toward keeping 
the farm clear of insects of this kind. 

But though they are generally able to look out for them- 
selves in getting a supply of food, a brood of turkeys are 
difflcult to bring up. To begin with, the mother bird 
is likely to ''hide away" her nest in some out-of-the-way 
corner of the farm, and when the young are hatched out, 
especially if the weather is cold or wet, many of them are 
lost before the new brood is discovered. If there is one 
thing above another that young turkeys cannot stand, it 
is getting wet, and if they are aflowed to drag through 
the wet grass, it is almost certain to be fatal. Then, too, 
as soon as they are hatched, the young turkeys are likely 
to be attacked by lice and to die as a result. If they es- 
cape these two evils, there is always the danger of hawks 
and owls, or skunks, and even rats. And then there are 
the usual turkey diseases, such as pip and gapes and 
blackhead, which account for a large number of others. 

If the turkeys are left to shift for themselves, they are 
almost sure to suffer; but if it is possible to give them a 
little extra care, many of the new brood can be saved. In 
the first place, the old turkeys should be watched so that 
their nesting-places may be discovered, and if barrels or 
boxes containing dry hay or straw are left in likely nesting- 
places, there is a good chance that the turkeys will make 
use of them. In order to keep down the Hce, the ground 



THE WANDERERS 251 

beneath the nest should be sprinkled with slaked lime, and 
at least twice a week during the brooding period the old 
turkey should be well dusted with insect powder. And after 
hatching, the young turkeys should be examined from time 
to time to see if they are free from lice. When insect pow- 
der is used, it must be put on so that it w^ill reach the 
skin, and care must be taken to keep it out of the eyes. 

After the young are hatched, both the mother and young 
should be placed in a light, airy coop — one which is suf- 
ficiently roomy for the old bird to move about in. The 
young birds must be shut in at nights and in damp weather; 
but on warm sunny days, when the grass is dry, they may 
be permitted to run in an inclosed yard. But it should 
be remembered that extremes of heat and cold are to be 
avoided. At other times, while the young are shut in, 
the mother bird should be allowed out for food and exer- 
cise. The use of the coop should be continued until the 
young birds are old enough to wander with the mother 
or to roost out at night. For the sake of cleanliness the 
position of the coop should be changed every few days. 

The food of turkeys, both young and old, is just as im- 
portant as their shelter. Information regarding the feed- 
ing of turkeys is given in the bulletins and poultry books; 
but there are one or two general rules regarding food that 
should always be remembered. In the first place, the young 
turkeys should not be allowed to gorge themselves with 
food; and when grain is thrown out to them, it should be 
scattered so that the turkeys may pick it up a grain at a 
time. Above all things, they must be given no sour or fer- 
mented food. Sour food for turkeys means certain death. 
When the flock of turkeys are on their wanderings about 



2';2 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 




The food of turkeys is as important as their shelter. 



the farm during wet weather, their usual insect food is gen- 
erally scarce, and to prevent the young turkeys from 
continued wandering through the wet grass, the flock 
should be hunted out and fed. 

Since turkeys are given to wandering, there is always 
danger that they may stray too far away or join them- 
selves to a neighbor's flock. When all the turkeys in 
the neighborhood are of the same breed, it is often diffi- 
cult to tell them apart; and for this reason some farmers 
prefer to keep different breeds from those of their neigh- 
bors. The bronze turkey is probably the most common 
breed; but other well-known varieties are the buff, the 
slate, the white, and the black, each of which has its own 
special advantages. But whatever breed is chosen there 
are certain well-known marks of a good turkey to look 
for in making the choice — a red head, a bright eye, and a 
disposition that is not too wild. 



A THANKSGIVING 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell, 

Wherein to dwell; 
A little house, whose humble roof 

Is weather-proof; 
Under the spars of which I lie 

Both soft and dry; 
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, 

Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 

Me while I sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate; 

Both void of state; 
And yet the threshold of my door 

Is worn by the poor, 
Who thither come, and freely get 

Good words, or meat. 
Like as my parlor, so my hall 

And kitchen's small; 
A Uttle buttery, and therein 

A bittle bin. 
Which keeps my little loaf of bread 

Unchipt, *unflead; 
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar 

Make me a fire, 
Close by whose living coal I sit, 

And glow like it. 
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soils my land, 
And gives me, for my bushel sown, 

Twice ten for one. 

Robert Herrick. 

* Unjlead — uncracked. 
253 




Cotton squares that have been injured by boll-weevil. 



MAKING OVER THE COTTON FARM 

For the last three or four years Farmer Francis had not 
made a success of his cotton crop. The plants had not 
produced well, the crop was late, the weevils had de- 
stroyed most of it, and what Francis did manage to save 
was of poor quality. He was discouraged — for what had 
happened for several years might easily happen again, and, 
as far as he could see, there was no help for it. If the 
boll-weevil was going to eat up his cotton crop, who could 
prevent it? And, do his best, his farm never would pro- 
duce good cotton anyway ! 

But just when things appeared to be at their worst, 
something happened which gave Farmer Francis a good 
deal of encouragement and set him once more upon a 

254 



MAKING OVER THE COTTON FARM 255 

fair way to prosperity. A young man who had been sent 
out by the government to study crop conditions in the 
South, came into the neighborhood, and, partly by chance, 
partly out of curiosity, Francis went to hear him speak 
at a meeting in the neighboring town. To his surprise, 
the young man began by describing a cotton farm so like 
his own that Francis might have imagined that the de- 
scription was meant just for him alone. An unproductive 
farm, the boll-weevil, poor cotton, and low prices — these 
were the conditions for which he proposed to find a cure. 
And what was the cure? Francis listened eagerly while 
the young man talked of remedies for worn-out soil and 
explained the value of rotation of crops and of proper 
fertilizers for the soil. Then came the question of im- 
proving the crop by choosing good seed. It had never 
occurred to Francis that the kind of seed made any serious 
difference in the crop; and, as for rotation, he could not 
recall a time when cotton had not been grown on most of 
the fields in his farm. 

But the most interesting part of the evening's talk was 
the advice which the lecturer gave as to the best method 
of fighting the boll-weevil. 

''The weevils that are going to attack your cotton next 
spring," the lecturer explained, ''must live through the 
winter. Down in your fields the old weevils are getting 
ready for the cold weather, feeding fat on the squares and 
small bolls and leaves that are left on the old plants; and 
new broods of young weevils are coming out. Every 
weevil that begins work in the spring mean's millions 
more before the season is over. Why not begin the fight 
now and try to starve them out before winter comes on? 



256 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Destroy the old plants with their squares and small bolls, 
and you will have fewer weevils to begin with in the spring." 

Different ways of destroying the old plants, by burning, 
ploughing under, and pasturing, were suggested; and 
besides attempting to starve the weevil out in the fall, 
the farmers were advised to clean up their farms so as 
to destroy the corn-stalks, weeds, and rubbish in the 
neighborhood of the cotton-fields, in which the weevils 
were hkely to pass the winter. 

''And," added the lecturer, ''if you will set the children 
to pick ofi the old weevils as soon as they appear on the 
plants in spring, and gather and destroy all the squares 
which are punctured by the weevil, you may account for 
thousands of weevils which, if left alone, will play havoc 
with your cotton." 

As Francis listened to the lecture and thought about 
his own careless methods of farming, he could not help 
wondering that he had managed to save any of his cotton 
at all; and in the intervals of the discussion he mapped 
out for himself a plan of campaign by which his farm 
might be cleaned up and his cotton crops might be im- 
proved. 

"But in order that your cotton may have a fighting 
chance against the weevil," continued the lecturer, "it 
must be brought to maturity as early as possible. If 
your crop is early, there is a chance that your cotton- 
plants may be able to set squares faster than the weevils 
can multiply. The later the crop, the greater the num- 
ber of weevils to destroy it." 

Then came the discussion of the different means for 
securing an early crop. Quick-growing land, proper fer- 



MAKING OVER THE COTTON FARM 257 

tilizers, the choice of early varieties, thorough cultivation 
of the soil — these and other agencies for bringing the crop 
to early maturity were one by one considered and dis- 
cussed. 

The lecture contained so many good points that Francis 
found it impossible to remember all the suggestions that 
were made; but it had at least one good result — it made 
Francis discontented with his own methods and encouraged 
him to think that he might yet be able to do something 
with his own run-down farm. One of the first things that 
he did on his return home was to send for bulletins and 
begin to read for himself. It was no small task, you may 
be sure, to make over his farm; but there was pleasure 
in the cleaning up and in planning for a rotation of crops 
and for the improvement of the soil itself. In order to 
carry out a rotation, he planted a smaller part of his farm 
in cotton than heretofore, and because there was less 
of it, he was able to cultivate his crop more thoroughly 
and give more attention to his fight against the weevils 
than he had ever done before. The neighbors were a 
little inclined to smile at the enthusiasm with which 
Francis undertook to carry out his new methods of farm- 
ing; but he could well afford to let them smile, for at the 
end of the first season he found that his crop of cotton was 
more than double what it had ever been in any single 
previous year. "Patience and perseverance," he was 
often heard to say, "together with a clean farm, good 
fertilizers, and an early crop, are the best backers you can 
have in the fight against poverty and the boll- weevil." 



w^ 










nil 

p 




>^^Ji 


^i#/iP..^, .; 




•: ^ • 1 


L 


^^ 





Your farmhouse should be a part of the landscape. 



A BETTER HOUSE 



If you had your choice as to the kind of house you 
might hve in, what would you choose? Remember, you 
are to Hve in the country, and the kind of house you might 
build in the country would likely be very different from 
what you would build in the city. If you could trans- 
plant some of the city houses to the country, they would, 
in most cases, look very much out of place, because they 
are not suited to the surroundings of the country. In 
building your farmhouse you must bear in mind that it is 
to be part of the landscape — a picture set into a frame- 
work of fields and trees. 

It does not matter much what material >our farm- 

2.^8 



A BETTER HOUSE 259 

house is made of, so long as it suits its surroundings 
and is convenient and comfortable, and so long as it can 
easily be kept in repair. Frame houses are very common 
in the country; but, in order to look well, a frame house 
must be frequently painted, and this costs a good deal 
both in time and money. This is one reason why houses 
of brick or stone are becoming more common in the 
country. 

In planning a house, you must, of course, first decide 
upon the size and shape; and perhaps you should be warned 
against building too large a house. Remember that a 
large house is not usually so cheerful or comfortable as a 
smaller one, and it is certainly harder to keep clean. 
When the boys and girls grow up, the family soon be- 
comes scattered, and father and mother are likely to find 
that the large, empty house is lonely and cheerless. In 
deciding upon the shape of the house, the important thing 
is to make it simple and convenient. It is more important 
that your house should be comfortable and easy to work 
in than that it should have a fine appearance. 

When you begin to build, the first part of the house to 
be provided for is the cellar. A farmhouse should have a 
cellar under the whole house, not only because it makes 
the house warmer, but because it can be put to so many 
uses. The cellar should be well lighted; and if it is light 
and dry, a room can be set apart for a work-bench and 
tools. There should always be a room in which the boys 
can work, if they wish, on winter evenings. The cellar 
walls are usually made of either stone or concrete; but 
since concrete is not always water-tight, it is best, unless 
the ground is very dry, to lay a tile drain around the 



26o COUNTRY LIFE READER 

outside and to put a thick layer of gravel against the 
concrete walls. 

Besides having a good cellar, the house must have a 
good roof; for the roof, more than anything else, gives 
character to the house. A roof that slopes too sharply 
does not look well; and it should not be cut up into fancy 
gables or bordered with an ornamental '' fringe" of any 
kind. The roof should be plain and broad and should 
reach out well over the walls. Some people like the red 
roof for a farmhouse, and there are many who prefer tile 
or shingle roofs to metal, because they feel that metal has 
a harsh appearance and does not harmonize with the 
landscape. 

The best rooms in the house should be the living-room 
and the kitchen, for these are the rooms in which the 
family spend most of the time. If a separate dining-room 
can be provided, in which the table can remain ''set," it 
will save mother a great deal of labor. In the down- 
stairs rooms, plenty of pantry and cupboard space should 
be provided; and above all things the kitchen should be 
carefully planned with a view to the saving of needless 
steps. 

Can you afford a fireplace in the living-room, and per- 
haps in the guest-chamber — the "spare" room upstairs, 
also ? It will give warmth and cheerfulness on cold even- 
ings and will, besides, help to ventilate your room. If 
you have a fireplace it is best to make it large. Let the 
chimney come through the roof, generous, big, suggesting 
warmth within, suggesting all manner of fine blazes upon 
a glowing hearth. Nothing more adorns a country house 
than a generous chimney. 



A BETTER HOUSE 261 

Now let us go upstairs; and in going up, we must not 
forget the stairs themselves. The stairs of a farmhouse 
should be made of hardwood, with steps that are both 



The stairs should be made of hardwood with steps low and broad. 

low and broad, so that they may be easy to climb. The 
upstairs should have a good, well-lighted hallway, and the 
rooms should not be too large. Many of the best farm- 
houses nowadays have ^'sleeping porches," so that bed- 
rooms are used only for dressing. The clothes-closets, 



262 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

however, should be roomy; and if there is space for a 
small window in the clothes-closet, it will be all the better. 
It would take too long to describe all the special con- 
veniences which a modern farmhouse may have. Many 
homes in the country are provided with steam-heating, 
bathroom, hot and cold water, and electric light; and now 
that the farmer is able to get a better education and to 
make the farm pay better, there is no reason why he 
should not live in "a. better house." 
(To be continued.) 



I would have our ordinary dwelling-houses built to last, 
and built to be lovely; as rich and full of pleasantness 
as may be, within and without . . . with such differences 
as might suit and express each man's character and occu- 
pation, and partly his history. . . . When we build let 
us think that we build for ever. Let it not be for present 
delight, nor for the present use alone; let it be such work 
as our descendants will thank us for, and let us think, as 
we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come when these 
stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched 
them, and that men will say as they look upon the labor 
and wrought substance of them: ''See! this our fathers 
did for us." 

RUSKIN. 



WINTER 




,^^^ 



# 



THE FARM CREED 

We believe that soil likes to eat, as well as its 
owner, and ought, therefore, to be liberally fed. 

We believe in large crops which leave the land 
better than they found it — making the farmer and 
the farm both glad at once. 

We believe in going to the bottom of things and, 
therefore, in deep ploughing and enough of it. All 
the better with a subsoil plough. 

We believe that every farm should own a good 
farmer. 

We believe that the best fertilizer for any soil 
is a spirit of industry, enterprise, and intelligence. 
Without this, lime and gypsum, bones and green 
manure, marl and guano will be of little use. 

We believe in good fences, good barns, good farm- 
houses, good stock, good orchards, and children 
enough to gather the fruit. 

We believe in a clean kitchen, a neat wife in it, 
a spinning-wheel, a clean cupboard, a clean dairy, 
and a clean conscience. , 

We firmly disbelieve in farmers that will not im- 
prove, in farms that grow poorer every year, in 
starving cattle, in farmers' boys turning into clerks 
and merchants, in farmers' daughters unwilling to 
work, and in all farmers ashamed of their vocations or 
who drink whiskey until honest people are ashamed 
of them. 

Henry Ward Beecher. 




h 




^>%j:?^^^^^^^'^S^h^S:^§^''S^m^^^--^® 



THE FARMER AND THE MILLIONAIRE 

(David Grayson is busy at work on his farm, when he is visited 
by John Starkweather, a millionaire who lives in the neighbor- 
hood. He gets John Starkweather to help him with his work, and 
when they have finished, the following conversation takes place.) 

We both washed our hands, talking with great good 
humor. When we had finished, I said: 

''Sit down, friend, if you've time, and let's talk." 

So he sat down on one of the logs of my wood-pile: a 
soKd sort of man, rather warm after his recent activities. 
He looked me over with some interest and, I thought, 
friendliness. 

''Why does a man like you," he asked finally, "waste 
himself on a little farm back here in the country?" 

For a single instant I came nearer to being angry than 
I have been for a long time. Waste myself! "Oh well," 
I thought with vainglorious superiority, "he doesn't know." 
So I said: 

"What would you have me be — a millionaire?" 

He smiled, but with a sort of sincerity. 

"You might be," he said. "Who can tell?" 

I laughed outright. The humor of it struck me as 
delicious. Here I had been, ever since I had heard of 
John Starkweather, rather gloating over him as a poor, 
suffering millionaire (of course, millionaires are unhappy), 
and there he sat, ruddy of face and hearty of body, pity- 
ing me for a poor, unfortunate farmer back here in the 
country ! 

265 



266 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

So I sat down beside Mr. Starkweather on the log and 
crossed my legs. I felt as though I had set foot in a new 
country. 

''Would you really advise me," I asked, ''to start in 
to be a millionaire?" 

He chuckled. 

"Well, that's one way of putting it. Hitch your wagon 
to a star, but begin by making a few dollars more a year 
than you spend. I know a man who began when he was 
about your age with total assets of ten dollars and a good 
digestion. He's now considered a fairly wealthy man; 
but, as I said, it's a penny business to start with. The 
point is, I like to see young men ambitious." 

"Ambitious," I asked, "for what?" 

"Why, to rise in the world, to get ahead." 

"I know you'll pardon me," I said, "for appearing to 
cross-examine you, but I'm tremendously interested in 
these things. What do you mean by rising? And who 
am I to get ahead of?" 

He looked at me in astonishment and with evident im- 
patience at my stupidity. 

"I am serious," I said. "I really want to make the 
best I can of my Kfe. It's the only one I've got." 

"See here," he said, "let us say you clear up five hun- 
dred a year from this farm " 

"You exaggerate," I interrupted. 

"Do I?" he laughed. "That makes my case all the 
better. Now, isn't it possible to rise from that? Couldn't 
you make a thousand, or five thousand, or even fifty thou- 
sand a year?" 

"I suppose I might," I said, "but do you think I'd be 



THE FARMER AND THE MILLIONAIRE 267 

any better off or happier with fifty thousand a year than 
I am now? You see, I Hke all these surroundings better 
than any other place I ever knew. That old green hill 
over there with the oak on it is an intimate friend of 
mine. I have a good corn-field in which every year I 
work miracles. I've a cow and a horse and a few pigs. I 
have a comfortable home. My appetite is perfect, and 
I have plenty of food to gratify it. I sleep every night like 
a boy, for I haven't a trouble in this world to disturb me. 
I enjoy the mornings here in the country; and the even- 
ings are pleasant. Some of my neighbors have come to 
be my good friends. I like them, and I am pretty sure 
they like me. Inside the house there I have the best 
books ever written, and I have time in the evenings to 
read them — I mean really read them. Now, the question 
is, would I be any better off, or any happier, if I had fifty 
thousand a year ? " 

*' You're making a strong case," laughed John Stark- 
weather. 

*' Strong!" I said. ''It is simply wonderful what a 

leverage upon society a few acres of land, a cow, a pig or 

two, and a span of horses give to a man. I'm ridiculously 

independent. I'd be the hardest sort of man to dislodge 

or crush. I tell you, my friend, a farmer is like an oak, 

his roots strike deep in the soil, he draws a sufficiency of 

food from the earth itself, he breathes the free air around 

him, his thirst is quenched by heaven itself — and there's 

no tax on sunshine." 

David Grayson (adapted). 




Down in the rice-field. 



A FIELD OF RICE 

If you could look into all the homes in the different 
countries of the world this morning, you would be surprised 
to find what a large number of boys and girls are having 
rice for breakfast; for, as you know, in eastern countries, 
such as Persia, India, China, and Japan, rice is the chief 
article of food. 

In America, rice is grown chiefly in North and South 
Carolina, Louisiana, and Texas. A little over two hun- 
dred years ago (in 1694), a British ship from Madagas- 
car to Liverpool was blown out of its course, and put 
in at Charleston. The captain gave Charles Landgrave 

268 



A FIELD OF RICE 269 

Smith a package of rough rice. This rice was used as 
seed, and from that time forward a large amount of rice 
was grown in the Carohnas. In the meantime the native 
French settlers in Louisiana and Texas were growing 
enough rice for their own use; but as they had to depend 
upon the natural rainfall for their crop it was sometimes 
a failure. Beginning about the year 1888, a great many 
settlers came into this part of the country. They also tried 
to grow rice, but since they could not regulate the supply of 
water their crop was always uncertain. At length, about 
1895, an attempt was made to irrigate the land by artificial 
means. When water was required it was pumped from the 
rivers into canals, and in this way it was carried long dis- 
tances, from higher to lower levels of the land; and when 
the farmers wished to make the fields dry, the water was 
shut off. Where it was difficult to obtain water from a 
river, wells were sunk, from which a sufficient supply was 
pumped. Both these methods of irrigation proved to be 
very successful, and, as a result, great tracts of land were 
opened up for rice-growing. 

Rice, as you know, is a kind of grain, but it grows under 
different conditions from most other grains; for it re- 
quires a great deal of moisture and grows best on land that 
is under water for part of the year. But, of course, the 
ground should be as dry as possible when the ploughing is 
done and when the rice is harvested. The soil is pre- 
pared for rice in much the same way as for wheat or other 
grain. It is best to plough in the fall, so that the soil 
will be exposed to the air; and as the roots of the rice plant 
go down to a depth of twelve or fourteen inches it is neces- 
sary to plough deeply. Before the rice is planted the sur- 



2 70 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

face of the soil should be finely pulverized. Then the rice 
is planted with a drill, in the same way as wheat. 

After the rice comes up, it is usually necessary to go 
over it with a weeder to kill the weeds, and if the ground 
is very dry, the water should be turned on for a short 
time; but it should be drained off again at once. 

From the time that the plants are about eight inches 
high until they are almost ready to harvest, they should 
grow in water, and the field should be covered with water 
from three to six inches in depth. In irrigated districts, 
the water is kept in circulation by having an inflow at the 
highest part of the field and an outflow at the lowest part. 
The water not only kills the weeds but makes the rice 
grow faster, and without water the grain would not head 
out properly. 

Before harvest time the water is drawn off and the ground 
is left to dry out so that the harvesting-machines may be 
used. Rice is harvested in the same way as wheat — with 
self-binders — but as it is usually cut while the straw is still 
green, heavier machines are required. After it is cut, it 
is generally left standing in shocks for about three weeks 
to dry before threshing. When it is threshed, the outer 
husks are left on, and in this rough form it is known as 
^' paddy." The rough rice is then put up in sacks and sent 
to the mill, where the husks are removed and the rice is 
polished in order to improve its appearance. The thin 
covering, or ''cuticle," which is removed in the process of 
polishing, forms what is known as rice-polish bran. This 
bran is the part of the grain that contains most of the oil 
and protein, and it makes good feed for young farm stock. 

Rice is not a difficult crop to grow, provided it is possible 



A FIELD OF RICE 271 

to control the water-supply so that the farmer may be 
reasonably certain that his crop will not be a failure. 
Experience has shown that in order to make a success 
of the crop it is not a good thing to grow rice on the same 
soil year after year; and the most successful farmers in the 
rice district grow rice in rotation with other crops. On 
the whole, rice is a good-paying crop; but the farmer who 
wishes to make the most out of his soil must use modern 
methods of irrigating his fields and fertilizing his soil, 
and must take advantage of labor-saving machinery in 
preparing the ground and harvesting the crop. 



OUT IN THE FIELDS 

The little cares that fretted me, 

I lost them yesterday, 
Among the fields above the sea, 

Among the winds at play. 
Among the lowing of the herds, 

The rustling of the trees. 
Among the singing of the birds. 

The humming of the bees. 

The foolish fears of what may happen, 

I cast them all away 
Among the clover-scented grass. 

Among the new-mown hay. 
Among the husking of the corn, 

Where drowsy poppies nod. 
Where ill thoughts die and good are born, 

Out in the fields with God. 






£^- 



'^/: 






TWO PICTURES 

An old farmhouse with meadows wide 
And sweet with clover on each side; 
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
The door with woodbine wreathed about, 
And wishes his one thought all day: 
"Oh, if I could but fly away 
From this dull spot, the world to see. 

How happy, happy, happy. 
How happy I should be I " 

Amid the city's constant din, 
A man who round the world has been, 
Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng. 
Is thinking, thinking, all day long: 
"Oh, could I only tread once more 
The field path to the farmhouse door. 
The old green meadow could I see, 

How happy, happy, happy. 
How happy I should be ! " 

Annie Douglas Robinson. 
272 



BUBO VIRGINIANUS 

The Story of a Great Horned Owl 

Bubo was hungry. The first snow had fallen the even- 
ing before, and the cottontails were afraid to venture out 
from their coverts. For them the snow was a great mis- 
fortune, for they could not make a movement over it 
without leaving their traces behind; and the white, gHs- 
tening carpet was a fatal background against which their 
dark shadows appeared with every bound. So they wisely 
stayed within their ground burrows and brush piles, and 
Bubo went hungry. 

He had taken up his position on the dead limb of a tall 
elm, whence he could see on all sides of him through the 
woods and away across through the little clearing by the 
river side. Twilight was deepening once more, and a 
little breeze was stirring through the few dead leaves that 
yet remained on the trees. But not a sound otherwise 
broke the stillness of the early night. Suddenly a faint 
rustling sounded from, the underbrush across the clear- 
ing — sounded, and then ceased, and then sounded again. 
Now was the time for Bubo! ''Ahaoo! Hooo ! Hooo!" 
The big owl horn echoed through the woods, and the cot- 
tontail in the undergrowth, transfixed for the moment 
with terror, made one mad bound for safety. But the 
moment's delay was fatal; Bubo had dashed down upon 
his prey, stunned it with a fierce blow, and borne it aloft 
to the limb of the elm tree above. 

273 



2 74 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Bubo was ravenous, and he soon made short work of 
the cottontail. Planting one cruel claw on its neck, he 
tore it to pieces with his strong beak and swallowed it in 
eager mouthfuls. And with a double tongue, a tip point- 
ing downward to the throat as well, it was, after all, an 
easy matter to make the feast complete. Fur, skin, bones, 
flesh, and all — there was no division of good and bad and 
no rejection of clean or unclean. Bubo's appetite was 
not satisfied until he had devoured the last vestige of 
bones and blood. 

He was quite satisfied now, and for the rest of the night 
he was able to enjoy to the full the sights and sounds of 
the November woods, stopping only in the course of a 
few hours to disgorge in one huge mouthful a ball of rab- 
bit hair, the undigestible part of his evening meal. 

The storm of the day before had passed away, and the 
moon stood clear and full over the valley to the east, tip- 
ping the frost-covered trees with misty whiteness and 
covering the floor of the great woods with an interlacing 
of black and white. Upon the top of the giant elm, close 
to the side of the jagged peak, sat Bubo. 

''Ahooo ! Ahooo ! Hooo !" The echoes died away, and 
a moment later the call was answered in fainter horn- 
like notes across the valley, and then again in still fainter 
echoes, from the pine wood that bordered the low-lying 
sand dunes along the margin of the lake. 

^'Hoooo ! Hooo ! Hoo !" Like the hooting of a hoarse- 
voiced engine in the distance — a mournful, soul-stirring 
call, Bubo Virginianus; but it is Nature's voice withal, 
and it suits well with the harshness and bareness of the 
bleak Novernber woods. 



BUBO VIRGINIANUS 275 

''Ahooo! Hooo! Hoo!" The cottontails are stirring 
now, but Bubo is satisfied. The start of terror passes un- 
heeded, and the mad bound for safety awakens no re- 
sponse. 

''Hoooo! Hooo! Hoo!" Till the moon goes down in 
the misty west, the drifting clouds overshadow the sky, 
and the whole wood is wrapped in thick darkness, in which 
tree and bush, beast and bird of prey alike, are swallowed 
up and lost ! 

The next night Bubo was absent from his accustomed 
place, and the deep owl horn from across the valley found 
no answering echo from the elm. On the other side of 
the great wood, down by the low-lying shore of the lake, 
the muskrats were building their winter mounds of weeds 
and grass in the shallow lagoons, and now with the ap- 
proach of twilight their activity was redoubled. Up and 
down the dark shadows swam, plying in and out among 
the weeds and rushes, and around the very roots of the 
tree at the mouth of the creek, in which Bubo sat waiting 
and watching in the darkness. Bubo was not afraid of 
water. His thick coat of feathers protected him too well 
for that, but he knew better than to attack a muskrat in 
his native element. By and by, however, there is a rustle 
in the reeds close under the tree; a dark muzzle pushes 
itself up from the water and searches among the rushes 
along the shore. ''Ahooo ! Hooo ! Hoo ! " The hoarse 
owl horn mingled with the soughing of the water and 
sighing of the reeds, and then like a winged whirlwind the 
great, fierce shadow fell among the weeds. 

And so throughout the late autumn and winter the 
feasting of Bubo continued. Sometimes, indeed, food 



276 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

was scarce, but in general, when one source of supply 
was exhausted, another took its place. Now it was a flock 
of crows perched together in the dark midnight in the shel- 
tering firs and spruces, or a bevy of innocent quail ranged 
in a picturesque circle in the dry leaves. Or, again, a 
belated black squirrel digging in the snow-drifts for a 
buried walnut in the mid-winter twilight. But the cot- 
tontail and the muskrats, after all, formed the staple of 
his fare. 

Bubo's ear with its wonderful tall ear-tufts, or horns, 
was perhaps the greatest assistance in his hunting; but 
the eye was a mechanism in itself that was wonder- 
fully adapted to his nocturnal owlish Hfe. By day the 
pupil was only a small black spot in the centre of a great, 
yellow, glaring disk; but with the approach of darkness 
the yellow screen was drawn fully back, and the great 
staring black pupil remained with its retina set to catch 
every wandering glint of faintest light. In the daytime 
Bubo could see fairly well, but the hght on bright days 
was too strong, and to guard against this he was provided 
with a movable film, or screen, under the eyelid, which he 
was able to let down over the eye at will. 

In the short winter days he slept in a hole in the tree 
top, where he generally remained undisturbed. From his 
quiet retreat he could hear the puffing of the black squir- 
rels in the big oak beyond, and the harsh croaking of the 
beautiful, red-bellied woodpecker as it flew from trunk to 
trunk. One afternoon a red squirrel and a red-headed 
woodpecker played an endless game of tag around and 
around the crotch of the tree below, and one dark and 
foggy morning a sleepless raccoon stuck b's pointed muzzle 



BUBO VIRGINIANUS 277 

within the doorway, but withdrew it in precipitate haste. 
Bubo was left entirely alone, with only the dismal answering 
horn from the other woods to cheer his owHsh soul in the 
gray dusk of the chill winter twilight. 

Bubo's mate lived across the valley in the lake woods, 
and in the latter part of February the nesting operations 
commenced. In this particular season the big nest of a 
red- shouldered hawk, high up in a crooked elm, was chosen 
out and put into repair, and even before the stormy 
weather of March was over, three large gaping mouths in 
the nest demanded all the care and attention of Bubo 
and his mate. 

Food was becoming scarce, but the wit of Bubo was 
equal to the emergency. He had discovered in the pine 
groves across the lake a large park which contained a fine 
supply of rare pheasants, and night after night he made 
fresh visits and helped himself liberally after his cus- 
tomary fashion. 

This continued for about a week, when one dark mid- 
night he discovered a tall pole directly above the pheasant 
pens — a splendid point of vantage from which he could 
see down into the pens and select his victims at ease. So 
down he sailed, noiselessly as ever, and ht upon the point. 
There was a sudden sharp click as the spring of a steel 
trap caught Bubo firmly by the claws. He strained every 
muscle and spread his huge wings in a vain effort to escape. 
It was of no avail. Then the instinct of the wild bird 
asserted itself, and he jerked savagely at the steel springs 
with his strong beak, but not a hair's breadth would they 
relax. All night long the struggle continued, but in vain, 
and the gray morning twilight found him captive still. 



278 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

When the park ranger appeared in the morning, he at 
once lowered the pole. He wished to remove Bubo alive, 
so as to keep him prisoner for a while; but how to ac- 
complish the task was a problem. Bubo had one foot 
still free, and the fierce beak and 'cruel claws were weapons 
to be avoided. He tried to approach from behind, but 
Bubo had the advantage there, for he was able to turn his 
head the full circle and could look directly over his back 
with as much ease as in facing to the front. Besides this, 
he kept his beak open and kept up a repeated hissing, 
which in itself was sufficient warning to the ranger to keep 
his distance and beware. A noose thrown over the body, 
however, soon secured the free foot and, watching his op- 
portunity, the ranger seized the two wings and Bubo was 
helpless. And what splendid wings ! A full five feet, as 
the ranger extended them, from tip to tip ! What wonder 
if the wood-hare started in his form in the thicket, and the 
red weasel cowered low in his burrow at the sweep of their 
fatal shadow on the glistening white of the snow? Strong, 
soft, and beautiful, but rather to the wild creatures of 
the wood the noiseless ministers of death — swift, sudden, 
and unerring. 

Before Bubo was freed from the trap, a small chain was 
fastened about his leg with a double knot, and this was 
attached to a staple in the side of a tree a few feet from 
the ground. The chain made all attempts to escape use- 
less, but Bubo had another artifice which he made use of, 
an artifice which seemed a strange one, to say the least, 
in so seemingly fierce a bird — the common device of the 
weak in feigning death. When he found that all efforts 
to escape were in vain, his wings relaxed, he dropped 




"Hoooo! Hooo! Hoo 



28o COUNTRY LIFE READER 

head foremost to the ground and lay limp and apparently 
lifeless on the grass, from which condition he refused to 
be aroused until he was finally left to himself again. ' 

During the day he remained undisturbed, except for a 
visit from a party of blue- jays. When they discovered 
him they came down in a company, and perched in a ring 
in the trees round about him, screeching and screaming 
their maledictions on his head. In the midst of this ring 
of enemies sat Bubo, staring, and blinking, and hissing, 
the horn-tufts bent down in token of vexation, and very 
wisely turning his head in all directions to guard against 
the expected persecution. But in the course of time, hav- 
ing vented their indignation on their enemy's head, they 
screamed hoarsely away and scattered once more to the 
distant quarters of the wood. 

Twilight fell at last. A chickadee lisped a *'dee, dee, 
dee" among the tree tops, and the evening melody of 
the wood -robin came up serenely from the budding elm 
woods in the valley. The hoarse croak of a bullfrog fell 
upon the gathering stillness of the night, and the tremulous 
quavering of the Uttle screech-owl came thin and faint 
across the water from the distant wood. 

Night had fallen, and with it Bubo's hour had come. 
He had not fingers to untie the knot and loosen the chain, 
but he had what served the purpose as well — a strong, 
fierce bill; and with it he pulled and shook and twisted 
the chain on his leg until, one by one, he had loosened the 
folds and shaken them free of his foot. The cord which 
was added, too, as an extra precaution, he cut with his 
sharp bill as with a knife, and a moment later was 
winging his way across the park lands, seizing a belated 



BUBO VIRGINIANUS 281 

squirrel in passing, in lieu of better and more satisfying 
fare. 

Troubles never come singly. In Bubo's absence he was 
ousted from his customary daytime retreat by a wan- 
dering raccoon; and the following morning, for want of a 
better hiding-place, he took up his position for the day 
in the darkest crotch of a dense tree top near by, where 
he sat the day through, blinking and staring and dozing 
by turns. 

It was there that I discovered him by accident late in 
the afternoon, in scanning the tree top for a black squir- 
rel's hole; and as I watched him attentively through my 
field-glasses, it was not a difficult matter to discover the 
secret of his playing death the day before. So motionless 
was he, and so like the tree trunk itself, that I fancied 
him at first to be merely the bare and broken stub of a 
giant branch. The great feather- tufts above his ears 
stood up tall and stiff to catch the slightest wave of sound, 
and he sat so rigid and erect in the hollow crook in the 
limb that his enemies might well be deceived in taking 
him to be a part and parcel of the tree. 

While I was lying watching, a crow flopped lazily across 
the valley, and, as fate would have it, alighted in this very 
elm. There was a moment of suspense, and then a loud, 
excited cawing. The secret of Bubo was discovered, but 
he never stirred so much as a feather. 

Were there ever so many crows in a single wood? 
'' Caw ! Caw! Caaaw ! Ha ! Ha ! Haw ! Ha a a w ! 
Owl ! Owl ! Owl ! Here he is ! Tear his eyes out ! The 
villain ! The thief ! Haaaaw ! The wretch ! W^e'll have 
his life-blood ! Revenge! Revenge! Oh, ha-a-a-a-a-w!" 



282 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

There were a score of them at least, and if storming 
and scolding and threatening could have done the work, 
Bubo would have died the death a hundred times over. 
They knew the power of his fierce claws and bill from 
sad experience only too well, and were too wise and cun- 
ning to come within range. But they sat in a fierce ring 
around about him, above, below, and on every side. They 
circled round his head, hovered in the air above him, 
crept upon him from behind, crossed and recrossed in 
front of him, and flapped their wings jeeringly in his very 
eyes. 

Then it was, if ever, that Bubo's strange power of turn- 
ing his head the full circle stood him in lucky stead. On 
every side it seemed, wherever and whenever his perse- 
cutors looked, the big, glaring, yellow eyes and the hiss- 
ing bill were upon them. How long the torment would 
have continued I do not know, had I not in my interest 
and curiosity inadvertently leaned out too far from my 
hiding-place. There was a loud caw of alarm and warn- 
ing as I was discovered. The crows instantly scattered 
to the four corners of the wood; and Bubo spread out his 
great wings and noiselessly disappeared in the dense 
foliage of the tree tops beyond. 

And so the round of Hfe went on for Bubo, year in and 
year out. Summer wore into autumn once more, and the 
fallen leaves rustled again to the footfall of the rabbit or 
squirrel or to the stirring of the juncos in the underbrush. 
Winter came around once again with its paradise of white 
snow, its short days, and its long, lonely, dreary nights; 
and in spring the white-throats sang again in the budding 
thickets for one sweet day, as they passed on with the 



BUBO VIRGINIANUS 283 

great company of wanderers to their summer home in the 
distant north. 

It was an early autumn evening, cold, rainy, and dreary. 
The wind had blown in fitful gusts all day, swaying the 
tree tops and scattering the faUing leaves in every direc- 
tion. Not a creature was stirring in the great woods, for 
wild creatures are too wise and too wary to risk their life 
on a stormy day, when the approach of an enemy cannot 
be readily heard. The great horn of Bubo sounded in vain 
above the rustling of the leaves and the creaking of the 
branches. 

But, as the darkness deepened, a white object slowly 
emerged from a deep burrow under a rotten stump at the 
edge of the wood and finally disappeared among the clumps 
of withered goldenrod that covered the little clearing be- 
yond. Bubo w^ell knew what the white tail plume and 
the white fur meant. All the other wild creatures Nature 
had clothed with harmonizing colors, so that the grass, 
the leaves, the soil, the bark of the tree had, as it were, 
taken them under their protecting care. But to Mephitis 
Mephitica, the skunk, another weapon of defense had 
been given, and the conspicuous white of the back and 
tail was a danger signal, a warning to all other wild 
creatures to take heed, keep their distance, and beware. 

But whatever the other animals might do, Bubo had no 
hesitation whatever in making the attack. The silence 
of his movements gave no warning of his approach, and 
he rehed on the strength and swiftness of the fatal stroke 
to protect him against the customary danger. But for 
once, at least, on this autumn evening, fate was against 
him, and that '^once" in a wild animal's fife means in- 



284 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

evi table death. Was it the whistle of the evening wind 
that gave the warning? Or was the evening twilight 
still bright enough to reveal the black falling thunder- 
bolt to the victim's watchful eye? Bubo fell upon the 
whiteness in the weeds, but fell he knew not how. Swift 
and silent as he was, his eyes were burned and blinded 
by the stinging acid stream, the victim's weapon of self- 
defense; the blow missed the vital part, and a moment 
later, bitten through the wing and unable to rise, he was 
once and for all in his enemy's power. What a struggle 
for Hfe and death in the withered goldenrod ! Furious, 
ferocious, merciless, but silent ! No shriek or groan of 
pain and no cry for quarter in the silence of the night — 
only the creaking of the forest branches in the dreary 
night wind and a fresh gust of rain among the fallen leaves 
and withered weeds ! 

Will the driving rain-clouds not lift a little when tlie 
fight is over? But no — the blackness of night falls upon 
the wood and clearing and the goldenrod which has lost 
its beauty; and the owl horn, faint and indistinct from 
the distant woods, is lost at last in the steady downpour 
of the dismal autumn rain. 



Man was never intended to live out of relation with 

nature. You think of rows of city houses as so many 

graded prisons. Those who live in them, even in artificial 

luxury, are deprived of the very best that God prepares 

for us to enjoy. 

E. P. Powell. 




Lively doings on the ice. 



PETER VALE'S SKATES 

"I don't blame the boys and girls for leaving the farm 
when they grow up," said Mrs. Vale. ''If I were young 
again, I should go to live in town, too. What is there to 
make them want to stay in the country, anyway? Now 
this winter " 

''Mother," interrupted ten-year-old Peter, who had 
been gazing intently out of the window at the falhng 
snow, the first of the season, "mother, can I have a 
pair of skates this year?" 

"Skates!" exclaimed Mrs. Vale. "Nonsense, child! 
What would you do with skates? Don't you see, the 
creek will be covered over with snow by to-morrow; and, 
besides, you couldn't learn to skate on that bit of ice 
anyway. 

28s 



286 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

''Now, this winter, as I was saying, there's absolutely 
nothing for young folks to do out here, or old folks either, 
for that matter — nothing but sleep, and do chores, and 
get meals." 

''That is all very well," said Miss Patten, "but what 
better off are they in the city? Of course there are 
libraries and theatres and skating-rinks; but I've had 
enough of the city with its noise and dirt. No more Kfe 
in a city boarding-house for me ! I prefer the farm." 

Miss Patten was a country girl, born and brought up 
on the farm; but she had been at the Normal School in 
the city, and she had come back to the country school and 
to farm Hfe with a better appreciation of what country 
life means. As a part of her training as a teacher, she had 
learned something about agriculture and farm manage- 
ment, and she was firmly of the opinion that farm life 
offers, or at least should offer, better attractions to the 
farmers' sons and daughters than the city. 

"So Peter Vale wants to skate?" she said to herself as 
she walked home that evening. "And why shouldn't he? 
If the creek is too small why can't we find some place else ? " 
But "some place else" is not always so easy to find ! And 
after all the possible places had been considered, she found 
herself coming back time and again to the idea of making 
a rink in the school yard itself. Here was a floor of hard 
earth, a good pump to supply the water, and willing hands 
to keep the ice clear of snow. 

There is no need to give any account of the way Miss 
Patten's plan was carried out. The rink was made — and 
without any expense — and it was just as much a success 
as an open-air rink made in that way could possibly be. 



PETER VALE'S SKATES 287 

And when a pair of skates for Peter Vale arrived in Santa 
Claus's bag that Christmas, there was no one in the Glen 
Grove section that was better pleased than Miss Patten, 
excepting, of course, Peter Vale himself. 

But just because the rink was a success, Miss Patten 
found that she had to face other problems which she had 
not expected. The young people of the section wanted 
to use the rink in the evenings, and this meant that the 
school itself had to be warmed and hghted and kept open 
a good deal of the time; for there were sure to be some of 
the young folks or their elders who did not wish to skate 
and who must have a place to rest. And then a bright 
idea occurred to Miss Patten : why not have a table with 
magazines, and farm journals and bulletins, and daily 
papers, and books, and a stereoscope with pictures, for 
those who preferred to remain inside? Why not, indeed, 
have a lending library, open at least a couple of nights 
a week, where those who wished to read might obtain 
good books? Why not — it was a pleasure to plan it, even 
if it never came true — why not have a special "social- 
centre" room built on to the school just for this purpose — 
with library shelves, and tables, and easy chairs, and pic- 
tures, and a gramophone, and games, and a big fireplace 
for the cold winter evenings? Why not? But, after all, 
these were only day-dreams. The thing to do just now, 
as Miss Patten saw it, was to make the school-room com- 
fortable, and try, if possible, to provide some profitable 
way of passing the winter evenings. 

To Miss Patten's surprise, the trustees fell in readily 
with her plan, and even went so far as to supply a stereo- 
scope with pictures, and two or three illustrated magazines. 



2 88 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

And when once the beginning was made, the part that re- 
mained was not difficult. Miss Patten's plan for the 
library was to have each family contribute one new book 
and one old one for lending purposes, while she herself 
undertook to see that the books were regularly exchanged. 
A scheme so simple as this was not difficult to carry out, 
and before the winter was over, the Glen Grove school- 
room boasted of half a dozen papers and magazines, a 
collection of the best agricultural bulletins, and the be- 
ginning of a neat little lending library. 

Miss Patten's plans for next winter include a debating 
society, and a ''young farmers'" agricultural club; but, 
as "next winter" is still a long way off, the success or 
failure of this new venture must belong to another story. 



There is one supreme advantage of the country — one 
not always appreciated and used as it should be. There 
can be no doubt that country life offers far, far greater 
facilities for reading than is the case in town. True, we 
have our free Hbraries, and booksellers' shops. But the 
long, dark evenings that the countryman complains of — 
the starless nights and unlighted lanes; the two miles of 
peril and mud that prevent one going to the village con- 
cert — these things make reading a necessity, deep thinking 
a habit. The city may produce smartness, but character 
requires space. 




On the way home. 



MAKING THE DAIRY-FARM PAY 



"I hear that Bingham has bought the Dexter farm," 
said Mr. Jones to his wife. ''He's tired of the city and is 
coming back to hve in the country." 

''Bingham!" repHed Mrs. Jones in some surprise. 
''What does Bingham know about farming now? He's 
been away from the farm for ten years. The Dexter place, 
did you say?" 

"Yes, the Dexter place. He's going to make an up-to- 
date dairy-farm of it, they say. It's one of Dick's notions, 
I think. You remember Dick Bingham, don't you ? He's 
twenty years old now and has just been at the Agricultural 
College. His heart is set on farming, and he will have 
nothing but a dairy-farm. So he has persuaded his father 
to put some of his money into it and give him a good 
start." 

289 



2 go COUNTRY LIFE READER 

''I didn't think Bingham was such a fool as to sink his 
money in that sort of thing," continued Mrs. Jones. '^Of 
course, they'll never make it pay." Then, after a pause: 
*'Are you quite sure that Bingham has bought the place?" 

Mr. Jones was quite sure of it and, as proof positive, 
a few minutes later Mrs. Jones saw with her own eyes the 
elder Bingham drive past and turn into the Dexter place, 
which was only a quarter of a mile up the road from the 
Jones farm. 

*'0f course, they'll never make it pay !" That was what 
the neighbors all said. But Dick Bingham had quite 
made up his mind that he would make it pay, notwith- 
standing anything that the neighbors might do or say. 
Upon one thing both he and his father were agreed — that 
they should count the cost of the undertaking in detail 
before going into it. They were both shrewd enough 
business men to see that a dairy-farm, or any other kind 
of farm, must earn enough to pay the interest on the capital 
invested in the farm, the buildings, the stock, and the ma- 
chinery, besides paying for the labor expended upon it. 

The Dexter place was sadly out of repair, but the soil 
was good — a fine clay loam — and the farm had a good 
stream running through it; and it was pleasantly situated 
a couple of miles from town and the railway-station. When 
the neighbors heard that the Binghams had taken over 
the place, they at once came to the conclusion that the old 
buildings would be torn down and that fine new dairy 
stables would be erected. But the old stables had been 
well built, even though they were out of repair; and after 
Dick and his father had looked them over, they concluded 
that they could be reconstructed so as to do for the pres- 



MAKING THE DAIRY-FARM PAY 291 

ent at least, until the enterprise began to pay for itself. 
There were three things that Dick had determined to pro- 
vide for his cattle — plenty of light, a proper supply of 
fresh air, and clean, comfortable stalls. Dexter's stables 
were dark and dingy, and all the fresh air which the cows 
ever received was suppHed through the open door and a 
broken pane of glass in the single dirty window; and stalls 
and floors alike were made of plank, which it was impos- 
sible to keep clean, and which had been worn into holes 
by long usage. The first thing that Dick did was to put 
a row of windows in the whole length of the stable; open 
up a series of ventilating shafts, so that the cows would get 
fresh air without having to lie in drafts; and put in a rough 
flooring of cement, with proper gutters and platforms. 

^'You would never guess it was the same place," said 
Mr. Jones, when he reported the improvements to his 
wife. ''I know Bingham talks a good deal of nonsense 
about the health of his cows, but I'm thinking all the 
same that I'll knock a few windows in our cow stable; 
and perhaps next year, if times get a Httle better, we can 
afford a cement floor in our stable, too." 

There was one thing more that Mr. Jones might have 
added — that Dick Bingham wouldn't put up with a dirty, 
muddy barn-yard, or dirty stables either, for that matter. 
And so the Dexter barn-yard was cleaned up and kept 
clean, and if Dexter had come back to live in the place, he 
might have put away his top-boots that he had to wear 
so as to wade through the mire and filth of his own stable 
yard. When Dick had finished making his improvements, 
one part of the barn-yard was roofed over, and the ground 
beneath was covered with good straw litter, but the rest 



292 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



of the yard was drained and packed hard, so that even 
in the muddiest weather the ground was clean and dry. 

When the Binghams bought the Dexter place they took 
over the machinery and the Hve stock, and a few weeks 
after they had taken possession they offered some of Dex- 




A sanitary and conveniently arranged dairy barn. 



ter's cattle for sale. Mrs. Jones bought one of the cows 
at a bargain, as she thought; but if she had known Dick 
Bingham's real reason for selHng it, she would have thought 
a good deal less of her purchase. The farmers of the dis- 
trict as a rule were content to take their dairy herds as they 
found them, and they had no means of knowing whether 
a particular cow was paying them or not; but Dick took 
measures to test each cow's milk and keep a record of it; 
and those cows whose record was low were at once sold 
and replaced by good, paying milkers. 



MAKING THE DAIRY-FARM PAY 293 

So far, in the opinion of Dick and his father, everything 
had gone well. They now had a good stable and barn- 
yard and a good dairy herd, and they had no difficulty in 
finding a market for their produce. The only thing that 
still remained for them to do was to provide for the proper 
feeding of the cattle. When Mr. and Mrs. Jones ''hap- 
pened in," one evening in November, they found Dick 
seated at a table covered with papers, apparently working 
out a compHcated problem in arithmetic. 

''Seems like old times," said Dick, ''when I was at 
school and used to have home work to do — only these are 
not the kind of questions that we had to do then. I used 
to have to find the cost of papering walls and carpeting 
floors, but now I have to find out what is the best kind of 
feed for my cows, and calculate what it will cost." 

''You see," he went on, "with dairy cattle you have to 
be particular what kind of feed you give them — so much 
protein for each cow, so much carbohydrates, so much 
fat; and I am trying to work out what they call a 'bal- 
anced ration,' so as to give every cow just the right amount 
of each." 

Mrs. Jones looked bewildered. She had never heard of 
such things as proteins and carbohydrates, and she did 
not have a very clear idea what Dick meant by "balanced 
rations." Perhaps Dick saw this, for he went on with 
his explanation without waiting for her to reply. 

"Silage is good for cattle," he continued, "and so are 
the legumes, such as clover and alfalfa; but they do not 
contain enough protein, and so I measure out so many 
pounds of each, according to the cow, and then I add other 
food, such as bran and meal, which contain a good deal of 



294 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

protein and fat, so that the cows' feed will be well bal- 
anced." 

Mr. Jones had a good many questions to ask about the 
dairy and the farm itself; and then Dick's father, who had 
been to market, came in, and the conversation turned to 
old times and the old friends before Mr. Bingham had 
first moved to town. 

''Am I glad to get back to the country?" laughed Mr. 
Bingham. ''No need to ask that question. I've tried both 
ways of living, and the country's the place for me. But," 
he added, looking toward Dick with a knowing glance, 
"a good deal depends on knowing how to live in the coun- 
try, and I'm not sure that I should enjoy Kving here quite 
so well if it were not for Dick. We both get a good deal 
more pleasure out of farming because Dick has learned 
how to farm; and it would not be much fun trying to run 
a dairy-farm if Dick had not learned how to make the 
dairy-farm pay. " 



Give your farm stock every possible care. Do not 
overwork them or ill-use them. Do not let them suffer 
from exposure to rain and cold. Feed them at regular 
hours, and make a study of the kinds of food they require. 
Good shelter, good food, clean quarters, and kindly usage 
— this is a form of investment which is sure to bring ample 
returns. 




Out on the frozen uplands. 



THE PROMISE OF BREAD 



Out on the frozen uplands, 
Underneath the snow and sleet, 
In the bosom of the ploughland 
Sleeps the Promise of the Wheat; 
With the ice for head and foot stone, 
And a snowy shroud outspread. 
In the frost-locked tomb of Winter 
295 



296 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Sleeps the Miracle of Bread ! 

With its hundred thousand reapers 

And its hundred thousand men, 

And the click of guard and sickle 

And the flails that turn again; 

And drover's shout and snap of whips 

And creak of horses' tugs, 

And a thin red line o' gingham girls 

That carry water- jugs; 

And yellow stalks and dagger beards 

That stab through cotton clothes, 

And farmer boys a-shocking wheat 

In long and crooked rows; 

And dust-veiled men on mountain stacks. 

Whose pitchforks flash and gleam; 

And threshing-engines shrieking songs 

In syllables of steam; 

And elevators painted red 

That lift their giant arms 

And beckon to the Harvest God 

Above the brooding farms; 

And loaded trains that hasten forth, 

A hungry world to fill — 

All sleeping just beneath the snow^ 

Out yonder on the hill ! 




A Western wheat-field. 



WHEAT, FLOUR, AND BREAD 

Imagine, if you can, that a grain of wheat has grown 
very large, so large that you can easily see all its parts 
and can cut it to pieces with a knife so as to see how it is 
formed. You will, of course, notice the "brush" of fine 
hairs at one end and the "crease" or furrow which runs 
down the front of the grain ; but these things are on the 
outside, and the important thing for us is to see the in- 
side of the grain. Let us cut our big kernel of grain in 
two across the middle and look at one of the ends that are 
cut. There is nothing very wonderful here — just a fine 
white substance covered by a rind or skin. If we could 
examine this rind closely with a microscope we should 

297 



298 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

see that it has a hning of plant cells which are closely 
packed together. This rind or skin is generally spoken of 
as the ''bran." The white substance is called the ''en- 
dosperm," and it is this substance of which flour is made. 

Now, if you will look at the lower end or "base" of your 
kernel of wheat you will notice that the rind is rougher 
than elsewhere, and if you will soak the grain in water so 
that the rind will peel off you will find underneath it, on 
the back of the grain, a Kttle egg-shaped body, which 
forms the embryo, or "germ," from which the grain grows. 
When the seed grain is planted, it swells with the warmth 
and moisture of the ground, and the "germ" begins to 
grow and sends out roots into the ground and blades of 
grass into the air above. But, in order to grow, it must 
have food. At first it uses up the food contained in the 
endosperm, and then the roots begin to suck up food from 
the air. 

If the grain is not sown too thickly, several stalks grow 
up from the same root and finally these stalks "head out." 
Like other plants, the wheat plant has flowers, but the 
flowers are small and are protected by a rough covering 
or sheath of "chaff." In time the flowers go to seed and 
when this grain, or "seed," ripens, it is threshed out, and 
later it is ground into flour. 

Long ago, when people first began to grind wheat they 
crushed it between any two flat stones that happened to 
be near at hand. A little later they kept two flat stones 
specially for that purpose, one of which was fixed in the 
ground while the other was turned on it. When tread- 
miUs, windmills, and, later, water-wheels came into use, 
the grinding was done at mills by men who understood 



WHEAT, FLOUR, AND BREAD 299 

how it should be done. But in all these ways of grinding, 
all the different parts of the wheat were left together in 
the flour. Later, the millers found a method of sifting 
out the coarser parts. 

The grinding of the grain and the sifting of the flour 
have gradually been improved, until to-day we have mills 
covering acres of ground, and making thousands of barrels 
of flour each day. In these mills, they are able to separate 
the different parts of the wheat, and can make ever so 
many different grades of flour. 

In the modern flour-mills the wheat is ground by what 
is known as the roller process. In the course of grinding, 
the wheat usually passes through six pairs of rollers be- 
fore the grinding is completed. In the first, the miller 
seeks just to break the grain into pieces. After sifting, 
the coarse parts, called the ''tailings," are passed on to the 
next pair of rollers, where the flour is removed. After 
the wheat has passed through all the rollers in this way, 
the flattened pieces are almost entirely free from flour 
and are classed as bran. In all such methods of grind- 
ing wheat, the centre part is rubbed off first; and, being 
free from bran particles, it makes very white flour. This 
forms the grade of flour known as ''patent." That got 
by grinding closer to the bran is known as the "baker's" 
grades. Still closer grinding forms the low grades of flour. 
Generally speaking, the more bran particles there are in the 
flour, the lower it is graded. The outer part of the wheat, 
nearly all of which goes into the bran, contains much more 
bone-making material than the flour. Because of this, 
some say that the "patent" and "baker's" grades of flour 
are not so good as the flour made by the old stone process. 



300 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

During the first half of the last century a man named 
Sylvester Graham, who lived in the New England States, 
urged the use of flour made from the whole wheat, including 
the bran; and flour made in this way is known as Graham 
flour. But it is hard to grind the bran so fine that it will 
not have a bad effect on the digestive system; and to over- 
come this, a machine has been invented which peels off 
the outer coat of the wheat grain. The remainder is 
ground, and is known as ''entire wheat flour." Such 
flour is always dark in color, because the germ is ground 
with it, but it contains more bone and fat producing ma- 
terial than flour made in any other way. 

It is very difficult to be sure of the exact quality of a 
flour, but there are certain general rules by which a good 
bread flour may be judged quickly. It should be white, 
with a faint yellow tinge, and it should fall loosely apart 
in the hand after being pressed. When put between the 
teeth it should ''crunch" a httle, or when rubbed be- 
tween the fingers it should be slightly gritty. But pos- 
sibly there is no one point which determines the quahty 
of flour so much as the amount of gluten it contains. 
Some one asks: " What is gluten ? " Have you ever made 
gum by chewing wheat? Nearly all children in the coun- 
try have done so. The gummy part is gluten. If you 
have ever tried to make gum from oats, barley, or corn, 
you have failed; because these grains do not contain 
gluten. It is because wheat contains this substance that 
it is so much used for bread-baking. If you take a httle 
flour and add enough water to make it into a stiff dough, 
and allow it to stand for an hour, and then take it between 
your fingers and knead it in water, you will see the water 



WHEAT, FLOUR, AND BREAD 301 

get white with the starch part that is separating from the 
dough. Continue the washing until the starch is all re- 
moved. What remains is gluten. Notice how tough and 
elastic it is. 

Some varieties of wheat contain more gluten than others. 
There is also a great difference in the quahty of glutens: 
some are tough and can be pulled out like a piece of rubber; 
others are soft and break when pulled. The wheat which 
contains the most gluten of a good, tough, elastic quality 
will make the best flour for bread-making. For this reason, 
what are known as spring wheats are usually better than 
those known as fall wheats. Millers call a flour which 
contains good gluten ''strong," and one that contains poor 
gluten "weak." 

Now that we have learned something about flour, let 
us see if w^e can learn something about the changes that 
take place when it is made into bread. If you have ever 
tried to wet flour with water, you will have noticed how 
hard it is to get the flour all wet. That is because the 
flour is so very fine. One of the main objects of making 
the flour into bread before it is eaten, is to separate these 
fine particles so that the digestive fluids of the stomach 
may more easily mix with them. The baker commences 
by mixing the flour with water. He also puts in yeast, 
and mixes it all together so thoroughly that the water 
and yeast come into contact with each httle particle of 
flour. 

Yeast consists of countless numbers of small plants 
known as yeast plants. W^hen the paste of dough con- 
taining yeast is set in a warm place the yeast plants begin 
to grow by feeding upon the sugar in the flour. The sugar 



302 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

is in this way changed into alcohol and a gas called carbonic 
acid gas, which is familiar to us in ginger ale and similar 
drinks. When the dough is heated, the heat causes the 
bubbles of gas to expand, or grow large. If it were not 
for the gluten in the dough, the gas would be able to force 
its way out; but the gluten stretches like elastic and holds 
the gas in, and the bread swells or ^'rises'' as a result. If 
too much yeast is added to the flour, too much gas may be 
formed; and the gas may even spread out the gluten so far 
that the walls. of the bubbles may break. The tougher 
and more elastic the gluten, the better the dough will rise, 
and the lighter the bread will be. This is where good 
gluten is valuable. 

Take a sHce of bread and examine it carefully. Notice 
the little openings or holes in it. These little holes were 
formed by the gas being held in by the gluten, as just de- 
scribed. 

After the yeast has worked enough, the dough is put 
into a hot oven. Here the heat kills the yeast plants, 
drives off the alcohol, and causes the gas to expand further. 

R. Harcourt (adapted). 



Winter is the time to do much good reading. A tramp 
over real fields is to be preferred to a tramp in a book. 
But a good book is pretty nearly as good as anything under 
the stars. You need both fields and books. And during 
these cold days — impossible days, some of them, for work 
afield — you will read, read ! 

Dallas Lore Sharp. 



AMONG THE EVERGREENS 

The name '^ evergreen" is, of course, only a popular 
name for the five or six kinds of trees whose leaves, or 
'' needles," remain on the trees all the year round. When 
we speak of the evergreens, we generally think of the pine, 
the spruce, the fir, the hemlock, and the cedar. 

One of the most conspicuous objects in almost any 
landscape, in the wilder parts of the country at least, is 
the white pine, which towers up, tall and irregular, over 
the surrounding rocks and the smaller undergrowth be- 
neath. Very hardy it is, for it may often be found growing 
apparently out of the solid rock, its roots stretching down 
through some narrow crevice to the scanty soil from which 
it draws its nourishment. This is the pine which you will 
meet with most commonly in all parts of the country 
where the soil is dry and sandy; and it is perhaps, after 
all, only a matter of chance that it is not our national 
emblem, for in the New England colonies two hundred 
years ago it was the device that was stamped on the silver 
coins, which were known as ''Pine Tree Shillings." 

Besides the v/hite pine, you may also meet with the 
beautiful red pine, a shorter, denser, and more regular tree, 
which is often used for ornament and shade. It may be 
easily distinguished from the white pine by the fact that 
its needles grow in pairs, while those of the white pine 
grow in tufts of five, and that its cones, instead of appear- 
ing singly, are found in clusters of two or three. 

Early last spring, during several days, I watched a sap- 

303 



304 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

sucker 'Happing" one of these red pines for its sap, and 
the process was an interesting one indeed. He chose the 
side of the tree exposed to the sun, because the sap flows 
more freely there; then he proceeded to chisel out five or 
six rows of holes in the bark, about half an inch apart, until 
he had thirty or forty in all. This task finished, he flew 
off; but in the course of half an hour he returned and licked 
up the sap that had gathered in the holes, together v/ith 
the insects that had been attracted by the sap. Then he 
went away again, only to return in another half-hour; and 
this sap-gathering was kept up regularly for several days. 
Indeed, I have no doubt that he had a good many other 
trees in his ''sugar bush," and that he spent the intervals 
during his absence from the red pine in going his rounds 
from tree to tree. 

Another evergreen that is most common in our northern 
woods is the spruce, in its different varieties, black, white, 
and red. If the white pine is the most valuable timber- 
tree, the spruce, on the other hand, is the most valuable 
for pulp wood. Its importance may be judged from the 
fact that one of the large dailies of New York uses over 
two hundred cords of spruce per day in the manufacture 
of paper. The spruce that we are most familiar with about 
our lawns and streets as an ornamental shade-tree is the 
Norway spruce; and, as its name imphes, it is not a native 
variety. It may readily be distinguished from the native 
species by the size of its cones, which are at least five or 
six inches in length, while those of the black spruce, for 
instance, are scarcely a quarter of that size. The thickness 
of the branches of the spruce make it a fine nesting-place 
for certain of the birds — the robin, the blue- jay, the cat- 




Among the evergreens. 



3o6 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

bird, and the chipping-sparrow ; and in the cold winter 
nights it has usually a motley crowd of tenants, English 
sparrows, waxwings, jays, juncos, and winter birds of all 
kinds, who find in its kindly shelter a protection from the 
cold. 

A tree which looks very much like the spruce, but which 
is found only in the north, is the balsam fir. The balsam fir 
differs from the spruce in several marked respects. It is 
not so tall; its bark is smoother and is covered with blisters 
containing ^'balsam," and its needles are fragrant. More- 
over, the needles of the spruce are sharp and grow thickly 
from all parts of the stem, while those of the fir are blunt 
and grow in two rows along the sides of the twigs. The 
balsam fir is a great favorite with most people, not only 
on account of its fragrance, which makes its needles valuable 
as a fining for pillows, but because it is one of the trees 
from which the genuine, old-fashioned Christmas tree is 
still made. 

The hemlock is another evergreen of the northern woods, 
which is interesting for a variety of reasons. In the late 
summer and autumn, at least, it is one of the sombre trees 
of the pine forests, rising tall, dark, thick-topped, and 
gloomy, but beautiful nevertheless. Its needles are short 
and flat, its branches dense, and its cones small and deli- 
cately formed. Its bark is the well-known tan-bark used 
in curing leather; and even if a farm is otherwise barren 
and rocky, the farmer may make at least a fair income if 
the rockiest portions of it are covered with a good supply 
of hemlock, which is doubly valuable on account of its bark 
and its wood. 

Then, too, the hemlock, even when half-rotten and 



AMONG THE EVERGREENS 



307 



lying on the ground, is of interest to the lover of nature, 
on account of the beautiful fungus that grows from its 
trunk. These fungous growths are sometimes very large, 
measuring over a foot in diameter, and they are covered 
with a delicate brown bloom which makes them look like 
the branching horns of the deer in the velvet. When this 
velvety bloom is brushed off, the fungus is bright mahog- 
any in color, and is scarcely less beautiful than the orig- 
inal brown. 

But the hemlock has still greater attraction for the boys, 
for it is the favorite feeding-ground of the porcupine. 
This dull-witted, slow-footed vegetarian hves chiefly on 
the fresh twigs and bark of the birch and the hemlock, 
and he may sometimes be seen, late in the afternoon, 
scrambling clumsily about in the thick hemlock top be- 
fore he retires for the night to his shelter in the rocks. 




Winter by the brookside. 



A BETTER HOUSE 

(Concluded) 

In the furnishing of houses great changes have been 
made since our great grandfathers' time. Many of the old 
log cabins had httle furniture besides tables, chairs, and 
beds. The beds were made of four poles, with basswood 
bark woven between them. The chairs and tables were 
roughly made and without ornamentation. But later, 
when flax and wool were raised and when spinning-wheels 
were invented, curtains and carpets of home manufacture 
made the pioneer homes more comfortable. Then came 
a time when it was thought that articles which came from 
the stores were better than those which were home-made. 
As a result, ''store" carpets, curtains, chairs, and other 
furnishings came into use; and to-day in our houses there 
are few home-made articles to be found. 

But have all these changes in the furnishing of our 
homes always meant a real improvement? Let us look 
into an average living-room in a farmhouse and see whether 
there are not further changes we might make, that would 
produce for us, as the title of our lesson says, ''a better 
house." 

Here we are ! Let us push up the window shades. We 
must let the sunshine enter if our room is to be cheerful 
and healthful. But look at the curtains ! They are much 
too long and they spread over the carpet in such a way 
that one cannot go near the windows without stepping 

308 



A BETTER HOUSE 309 

on them. And see ! Now that I have pushed them, 
back, what a lovely view ! This window frames in that 
beautiful old apple tree and gives a ghmpse of the front 
lane beyond. Suppose we take away those thick lace 
curtains, and hang instead some curtains of thinner ma- 
terial. And let us have them come only to the lower edge 
of the window — so that they will not cover up the fine 
lines of the well-built window-frame. Then, too, we shall 
keep them clean more easily if they are short. Now, 
see the change ! Our windows are pictures now — for we 
can see the outdoor loveliness through these thin cur- 
tains — and the woodwork of the window forms a frame 
for the picture. 

But what a strange, crowded feeling we have in this 
room ! And yet it is not small. Can you see the cause ? 
The designs in the wall-paper and in the carpet are so large 
and striking that they seem to ^'jump up" at us, and there 
is not a spot where the eye may rest. Let us put a plainer 
paper on the wall — one with a narrow stripe or with no 
pattern at all. Then, if we replace the staring carpet by 
a rug, which can be easily lifted and frequently cleaned, 
we shall find that our room has a totally different ap- 
pearance. 

How much better our pictures will look now that we 
have a plainer paper on the wall, to serve as a background 
for them. But we cannot hang these pictures as they are. 
Look at this Madonna ! See how the picture is lost in the 
confusion of the frame, which attracts our attention more 
than the picture itself does. A frame should be merely 
a division of the picture from the wall, and there is some- 
thing wrong about it if it is noticeable. We shall put a 



3IO 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



simple, dignified frame on this picture, and then the full 
beauty of the painting will be brought out. Generally, 
bright gilt frames are a mistake in a house. They were 




The frame should not attract too much attention. 



first used on richly colored paintings placed in dim cathe- 
drals, where the gold of the frames harmonized with the 
golden vessels on the altar. But in a small room a gold 
frame usually becomes too noticeable, and is in poor taste. 
The room looks better now; yet it has a crowded ap- 
pearance still. Look at the array of bric-a-brac on the 
mantel and on the piano. The wax figures are pushing 
those vases almost over ! Suppose we apply an old test 
here. Let us ask of each of these articles: ^'Is it useful? 
Is it beautiful?" If it is neither, it must go! Here is a 
vase, slender near the base, larger farther up, and the 
mouth is so narrow that it cannot be used for a bouquet. 



A BETTER HOUSE 



311 




It is not beautiful, for it giyes us an uneasy fear that it may 

topple over any minute, while an object of beauty should 

give us a feeling of ease, and of satisfaction in its propor-' 

lions. Besides, 

the ghttering gilt 

of the handles 

and base is not 

in keeping, with 

the simple beauty 

of flowers. But 

here, just beside 

this, is another 

vase, and it is 

truly lovely. The 

shape is ideal for 

long-stemmed 

flowers, and its 

color is such as wdll not be out of harmony with any 

flowers we may choose to use. Many of the other things 

on the mantel are beautiful as well as useful; but there 

are too many. If we remove some, there w^ill be space 

enough between the others to allow our minds and eyes 

to rest as we look from one to the other. 

And now that we are through with the mantel, what 
do you think of the chairs in this room? Here is one I 
like very much — and here is one I dislike. Can you see 
the difference ? This one is simple in Hne, strong in work- 
manship, stands true on its feet, and is covered with 
burlap, which does not hold the dust. It is a roomy, com- 
fortable chair. But the other is cushioned in velvet and 
plush — impossible to keep clean — and the *' spindle" work, 



Flowers always look best in a simple vase. 



312 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

which is meant to be ornamental, breaks easily. In such 
a chair one would scarcely dare move lest it give way ! I 
am glad there are more of the first sort than of the second 
in the room. 



Fl 


c^JiL 


.^.„,..^...^...^.^ |-==yy " p^^? 


¥> 


pi^ 



A roomy, comfortable chair is better than one that is merely ornamental. 

I am sure, too, that you will agree with me in wishing 
to have this couch made over, if possible. The ornaments 
glued to the back stick out uncomfortably, and the frame, 
as a whole, has ugly angles. How much better it will be 
if we can have it made over to look like the second couch 
in the illustration. The latter is simpler in design, and 
the dark-green corduroy covering is not so glaring as the 
bright-red plush of the other. 

You noticed that I put aside the cushions just now, in 
order to see the couch without them. Let us examine the 
cushions next. Don't you think, since the object of a 



A BETTER HOUSE 



3^3 



cushion is to afford comfort, that it is in bad taste to have 
one Hke this— with a head painted on in color? If you 




Choose furniture which is simple in design. 



like to look at it, it would be better to frame it as a pic- 
ture, but what possible excuse is there for it on a sofa 
pillow? The cover cannot be cleaned, and one would 
hesitate to settle down for. a nap on anything so gaudy. 



314 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



Here are several that are much better — the border orna- 
ment on this does not interfere with the comfortable use 
of the cushion, and the cover is of linen, which can be 
washed any number of times. 

But are you growing tired of our visit ? Just before you 




. The lamp on the right is of little practical use. 



go, I want you to look at the lamp on this little table, 
and then at the one by the book-case. You see there is 
a great difference. In this one, notice how dusty the 
shade is with all its ruffles; and then, too, the cheap decora- 
tion of the bowl makes it difficult to keep clean. Its 
outhnes are in poor proportion, and the whole affair is too 
showy for practical use. But the other lamp has plain 
materials, the base is comfortably large, and the wide- 
spreading shade sends a splendid Hght over the table. 

I suppose the reason that we find in the same room 
articles so totally different as these two lamps, is that the 
furnishings have been bought at long intervals, just when 



A BETTER HOUSE 315 

the owner could afford something new. There is no reason 
why a room furnished gradually, one piece at a time, 
should not be as beautiful as one completely furnished 
at the outset. But to do it successfully we must plan our 
room beforehand and know how we wish it to look when 
completed. What should you think of a man, setting out 
to build a house for himself, who would buy some bricks 
this month, a can or two of paint the next, perhaps some 
odd pieces of scantHng of different lengths the next, and 
so on, at haphazard, without any definite plan, hoping 
that somehow it would all fit in ! Yet that is what many 
of us do in furnishing our homes — where it is just as fool- 
ish. 

Plan your room. Decide the color scheme you wish 
to follow, taking into consideration the Hghting of the 
room and its use. Treat the walls as backgrounds for 
pictures and furniture. Choose and frame your pictures 
carefully; then hang them where they can be seen to the 
best advantage, and in such a way as to form pleasing 
lines on the wall space. Consider the windows as pic- 
tures. One lady in her beautiful home on the Saint Law- 
rence River leaves her windows free of all draperies and 
curtains, because they frame in such scenes of loveliness. 
You are fortunate in having your homes in the country, 
where your windows look upon green fields and woods, 
instead of upon bare brick walls, as is so often the case 
in crowded cities. 

Select your furniture for use — not for ornamentation. 
Therefore choose furniture of good wood, of honest work- 
manship, and of a design suited to the nature of the room 
for which it is intended. Let us have no sham about 



3i6 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

our homes; let everything be real. Then, with every 
purchase we make, every new treasure we gain to add to 
the beauty of our home, we shall be making of it ''a better 
house." M. B. Stevenson. 



THE AWAKENING OF SPRING 

FROM '' m MEMORIAM." 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drowned in yonder Hving blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood; that Kve their lives 

From land to land; and in my breast 
Spring wakens, too; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet. 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



SPRING 




~^^:^^^^;X^i^i^^=^--='&&-^'^.^2i2U^^-X^b^^=^ 



THE FIRST GARDEN 

And the Lord God planted a garden east- 
ward in Eden; and there he put the man 
whom he had formed 

And out of the ground made the Lord 
God to grow every tree that is pleasant to 
the sight, and good for food; the tree of life 
also in the midst of the garden, and the tree 
of the knowledge of good and evil. 

And a river went out of Eden to water the 
garden, and from thence it was parted, and 
became into four heads. . . . 

And the Lord God took the man, and put 
him into the garden of Eden to dress it and 
to keep it. 

Genesis ii : 8-10, 15. 




# 




Cfe^w=€^=^<3=^^^ 



..^:^> 



6 



A FLOWER LOVER'S CREED 

I believe in roses because they are the most perfect 
flowers that grow. 

I believe in the crocus, the snowdrop, and the bluebell 
because they are brave and usher in the garden year. 

I believe in the lily of the valley because it is fragrant 
and hardy and loves the shade, likewise the sun. 

I believe in corn-flowers — sometimes. 

I beheve in the iris, though I have none, for it is a won- 
derful work of God. 

I beheve in the homely golden-glow because it blooms 
so profusely in the fence corner. 

I beheve in China asters because I love their colors. 

I beheve in morning-glories because they aspire to 
heaven. 

I beheve in the lowly nasturtium because it gives, and 
asks not, from June to November. 

I beheve in hollyhocks because nothing looks so well 
against an old white house. 

I beheve in hardy chrysanthemums because they defy 
continuous frosts. 

I believe in dahlias because I can pick them with a 
clear conscience. 

I beheve in the hlac, weigeha, and syringa because 
they love old dooryards.. 

I beheve in flowers from the depth of my being because 
they exist for beauty and are perfect, complete things. 
They are generous and innocent, and I can help them to 
grow. 

Walter A. Dyer (adapted). 
319 



A GOOD START 

The country boy who wishes to have early garden pro- 
duce to sell must make use of some artificial means, such 
as a hotbed or a cold-frame, in order to give his plants a 
good start. If he relies on raising his plants in his garden 
in the usual way, he has to wait for the warm weather to 
come before his plants will grow, and then he does not 
get the best price for his produce; but if he can provide 
this 'warm weather' in some artificial way, he may be sure 
that his garden produce will be ready for use early in the 
season, no matter what the weather outside may be like. 

The easiest way to produce artificial heat for plants is 
by the use of a ''cold-frame." A cold-frame consists 
simply of a box or frame inclosing a small earth plat, 
which is covered over with glass. The frame keeps out 
the cold, and the sun shining through the glass warms the 
air inside, so that with good soil and proper moisture the 
plants are able to grow. By means of a cold-frame it is 
possible to give garden plants at least a month's start 
over those which are planted in the regular way. 

But by means of a hotbed a much earlier beginning may 
be made. A hotbed, however, is a more difiicult and more 
expensive thing to construct than a cold-frame. It con- 
sists, in the first place, of a pit, or excavation (about four 
feet deep) , inclosed by a frame made of wood or concrete. 
The bottom of this pit is sometimes lined with stones, 
bits of glass, pottery, etc., to help the drainage. The pit 
is then filled with manure (mixed with dead leaves or straw) 

320 



A GOOD START 321 

to the depth of two feet; and after the manure has been 
exposed to the air for some days so that it may cool off 
sufhciently, it is covered by a bed of good loam about six 
inches deep. Then the seeds are planted and the glass 
sashes are fitted over the top, as in the case of the cold- 
frame. 

In the hotbed it is the manure that suppHes the heat, 
for when manure ferments it gives off both heat and gas. 
Since the hotbed does not depend upon the sun for its 
heat, seeds may be planted in it much earlier than in a 
cold-frame. It may, indeed, with proper care, be kept 
going throughout the winter, so that a supply of lettuce, 
radishes, and other ''greens" may be provided throughout 
the year. 

After the seeds are planted, it must not be forgotten 
that the soil needs both air and moisture. Air is usually 
suppKed by raising the sash a few inches during the day, 
if weather permits. Care must be taken, however, to see 
that the frames are properly covered over at night in cold 
weather, and old carpets, newspapers, mats, etc., may be 
used for this purpose. 



Who would not have a garden in April? To rake to- 
gether the rubbish and burn it up, to turn over the re- 
newed soil, to scatter the rich compost, to plant the first 
seed or bury the first tuber ! It is not the seed that is 
planted any more than it is I that is planted; it is not 
the dry stalks and weeds that are burned up, any more 
than it is my gloom and regrets that are consumed. An 
April smoke makes a clean harvest. 

John Burroughs. 







The gardener's friend. 



THE GARDENER'S RIGHT-HAND MAN 



Have you ever noticed, after a warm summer shower, 
a great number of little toads hopping about along the 
roads and in the fields? 

They seem to have come quite suddenly, and some 
people will tell you that they came down with the rain ! 
But this is nonsense. True, they often appear at the same 
time as the rain, but they do not come from the sky with 
it. It is from the muddy margins of the pools where they 
have lived their tadpole lives that they crowd forth to 
enjoy the shower. For, only a short time before, these 
little toads were pollywogs, all heads and tails — Hving 
happy lives in ponds and pools, and they still like to have 
their skins wet. 

When they are just hatched from the eggs, these toads 

322 



THE GARDENER'S RIGHT-HAND MAN 323 

are queer, shapeless-looking objects, and breathe by means 
of gills, as fish do. But soon, besides the tail, which be- 
comes smaller and smaller, a pair of hind legs can be seen, 
and a little later fore legs come, and the tail disappears 
altogether. Within little more than a month from the 
time the eggs are laid, the toads, besides having grown 
four legs, begin to breathe through lungs, like other land 
animals, and are ready to leave the water for a new life 
on land. But they are a little tender yet, and they wallow 
about the edge of their former home until some day a 
warm shower of rain tempts them to go farther, and out 
they hop, like boys going off for a holiday, eager for new 
sights. 

Alas ! Many of them meet trouble at once. As they 
leave the water, snakes may seize them, ducks are on the 
watch for them, crows and hawks consider a fresh, young 
toad a choice tidbit; and if they do get safely past these 
enemies, careless people passing along may crush them to 
death. 

The toad that escapes these perils continues to grow 
very rapidly, feeding greedily on flies, slugs, and other 
insects, which he catches with his tongue. And a curious 
tongue it is ! It is fastened to the front of his mouth, is 
free at the other end, and has on it a thick, sticky fluid. 
Out he flashes his tongue, so swiftly that one can scarcely 
see the movement, and the ill-fated insect is caught a 
prisoner on the sticky tip. The toad has an enormous 
appetite and eats up very many insect pests. Thus he 
is justly called the "gardener's right-hand man." 

Young Mr. Toad is very particular about his appear- 
ance. Every few weeks, when he is young, he must get 



324 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

rid of his warty skin, which is becoming too tight for him, 
and have one that is new, smooth, and ghstening. How 
does he make the change? Very simply: the old skin 
splits along the back and legs and beneath, and the toad 
pulls it into his mouth and swallows it ! When he is older, 
he does not grow so rapidly, and so changes his skin, or 
moults, only about four times a year. 

You will wonder what the toad does in winter, when 
insects are hard to find. His winter's lodging is a simple 
matter, however, for he finds a soft spot in the earth, 
works himself backward into it, and goes to sleep with 
the grass, flowers, and trees. In the spring he wakes and 
makes his way to a pond, where, above the booming of 
bullfrogs, you may hear his trilling, as he sings a swelling 
love song to his mate. It is a pleasant sound — a '' drowsy 
drool that brings your feet to loitering in the deepening 
dusk." The eggs are laid in chains of jelly-like globes, 
and soon the pond is alive with a multitude of new little 
pollywogs, ready to repeat the life story of the older toads. 

Try making a pet of a toad. You will not get warts by 
contact with toads, and they are easily tamed, showing a 
fair amount of intelligence. By watching their manner 
of Hving you will learn scores of interesting things about 
these harmless, useful little creatures. 

M. B. Stevenson. 



A garden ! To grow one's own vegetables, to nurse 
one's own flowers, to rear one's own chickens, to milk 
one's own cow — and to keep one's own carriage. This is 
to be personally acquainted with the universe. 



MAPLE-SUGARING 

'^It is time to tap the trees," said our father; ''I think 
the sap will run." All that day he sawed elder sticks, in 
foot lengths, and pushed out the pith. These, when sharp- 
ened, made- excellent troughs to conduct the sap into pans 
and buckets. Early the next morning, while the frost 
held the ground, we loaded a stone-boat with all sorts of 
pans and pails and with the elder spiles that we had made, 
and with them we took an auger and a mallet. The sun 
came out warm in the glen, but a sharp north wind slipped 
over the hill occasionally, to remind us that March was 
not quite ready to leave the scene. It was the time when 
winter and spring are wrestling. 

"Ah," said our father, as he blew on his fingers, "winter 
dislikes to let go." Then he began to bore holes in the 
south side of the great maple tree — two hundred years old 
— and we boys drove in the spiles and set the pans. The 
sweet juice began at once to ooze out through the elder 
sticks and then to drop into the buckets. I can hear it 
now ! That first drop, drop, against the tin I Out of a few 
of the larger trees, in the warm hollows, where the wind 
could not find its way, the sap spurted in httle streams. 
The bees came from their hives and flew about our heads, 
ahghting on the chips to get a taste of the sweets. A 
butterfly flitted, and tasted, and flew again to find a sweeter 
chip or perhaps a safer spot. 

"Boys," said father, "it is time to swing the kettle, for 
with this run we must begin to boil before night." To be 

325 



326 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



sure ! For the pans were nearly full by noon, as we our- 
selves were half full of the sweet stuff — and we could smell 
the boiling sugar in our anticipation. Down in the very 




Hanging the sap-buckets. 



heart of the glen we drove strong crotched sticks; and 
across these we laid a stout ash pole. On this the ten-pail 
iron kettle was hung with a double hook. There were no 
patent evaporators in those days; but that did not worry 
us; our sugar should be the best. Little Tom ran to the 



MAPLE-SUGARING 327 

house, which was a quarter of a mile away, with two pieces 
of hemlock bark to bring us coals. For in all the world 
there was not at that time a single match! Did we not 
by "match-making" mean making a very different thing? 
But you should have seen how well nature cared for us 
without matches. By order of Providence hemlock bark 
curled up just enough to hold a dozen big maple coals, 
and these another bark would cover from the wind. We 
had already gathered bunches of dry grass, with dry twigs, 
and more hemlock bark. I can smell it to this day. The 
dehcious resin as it touched the coal ! Then Jim quickly 
took the coals and blew them with all his might. It was 
a critical moment, and it needed a deal of breath. First 
a single thread of smoke came out and wound its way 
inquiringly up into the air; then a puff of smoke blew out 
straight into the eyes of Jim; and other puffs one after 
another into every other eager pair of eyes that bent over 
the problem. Bless me, how does smoke know so much? 
Jim's face was in a whirling cloud and his eyes became 
watery, but he would not be beaten. At last a red jet — 
a flash — a little hesitation — more rolls of smoke — and 
then the flames burst up and grappled with the bark and 
sticks. Yes, indeed ! now it understood what was wanted. 
Maple-sugar time had come, and sap must be boiled. The 
fire had business on hand. 

Our father shouted cheerily from the top of the hill: 
''Behold how great a matter a Httle fire kindleth!" '' Yes !" 
we answered; and now we are ready to gather the sap. 
Each one first stood himself in the middle of a huge hoop; 
and this hoop lay on the top of two pails, which were so 
held apart that they could not swing against the legs of 



328 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

the bearer. Then we went from tree to tree and emptied 
the pans into our pails. When these were full, they were 
emptied into the kettle over the fire. It was not light 
work, but it was work full of good cheer; for what would 
not a boy do to get at a plenty of maple sugar. Soon an- 
other kettle must be swung, and into that we dipped the 
thickening sap, while we still poured fresh sap into the 
first kettle. Work should never go alone; and as for fun, 
it cannot go alone. Let them go together, I say; that is 
the true way. 

The woodpeckers were also tapping the trees — the red- 
headed and the yellow-throated— and they came very close 
to us; for no woodpecker fears a human being. Why 
should he? Is he not doing us good service, pulling the 
grubs from the trees ? It must have been the second morn- 
ing that a robin's song was heard — clear, glorious, trium- 
phant, and far-reaching. I do not doubt that song was the 
echo of one to the south, a mile away or more; and that 
a whole chain of singers — a complete line of couriers — 
reached to the flocks in the Southern States. But of that 
we did not have time to think. All we cared for was the 
grand fact that the robins had come back again. And 
while we were in the excitement over our redbreast, came 
a thin, fine, silvery note up the swale, from the first blue- 
bird — it was just as far away as the ear could catch it. 

The kettle of thickest syrup was needing a good deal 
of attention. Jim was frequently dropping in a bit of 
colder material to prevent it from boiling over. It would 
rise in a mass of deep chocolate-colored bubbles and 
often reached nearly to the top, but Jim understood that 
it must not boil over. 



MAPLE-SUGARING 329 

About noon the little mother appeared, winding about 
the knoll into the glen, with a basket on her arm nearly 
as big as herself. The robins sang harder than ever, and 
the woodpecker rapped for order. Jim ran to meet her 
and to carry the basket, while Tom and I lugged a dry 
log near the fire for a seat. "Well," said she, catching 
her breath, "this is work; this is earning your bread and 
salt; and you shall have it more and more." And then 
she looked up at the birds, and said: "And you, too, you 
little darlings! You shall have your dinners." Then she 
gave half a dozen bones for us to tie to the trees where the 
birds might peck at them — nor were the bones without 
meat. The squirrels came into the branches overhead, and, 
looking down curiously, said, "Cht! Cht! Cht!" "To 
be sure," said the little mother, "and you, too." Just 
then our uncles Piatt and George also appeared in the 
distance, and with another basket between them — and it 
was clear enough, as far as you could see them, that Uncle 
George was growling. What, what, a quarter of a mile on 
gouty feet, and all for a little maple sugar ! Why not let 
the world alone. On top of the little mother's basket was 
a nicely folded table-cloth. Why is it a woman can never 
eat without a white cloth under her food? So it is; but 
for me I prefer green, like the sod. While the cloth was 
spread over a great stump, Uncle George uncovered two 
dozen eggs. "'Tis all the hens have laid," said my Uncle 
Piatt, "and I shall have none for Easter." "'Tis just 
enough," said my Uncle George. Then, hopping about 
on his gouty feet, he tumbled them all into the kettle of 
boiling syrup. Ah, but you should always boil your eggs 
in maple syrup! At last the little mother called out: 



330 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

''Come, father, let go the sugar, and eat!" There on the 
stump, and on a great log that we boys straddled, were 
sandwiches and doughnuts and sHced ham, and there 
were the eggs that my Uncle George skimmed out of the 
boihng syrup and gave to us as fast as we could eat them. 
The squirrels were coming closer and closer, and at last 
one jumped squarely down on the log beside Jim, and 
took a bit of his bread. ''It's fair," said Jim, "and you 
shall have more." And the squirrel sat up on his hind 
legs and said, in pretty good EngHsh: "Welcome; glad to 
see you !" So the family was all together, and everybody 
ate to his heart's desire. When all were satisfied, the little 
mother loosed her apron-strings, and then looked about 
in triumph — as much as to say: "What would you do with 
your tapping and your boiling, if it were not for me? In- 
deed ! But now I have set all things right; go on w^ith 
your boring holes and carrying sap !" Then she went back 
to the house. 

Every night the syrup was taken in buckets to the 
house. There it was turned over to the little mother, who 
cleansed it and then boiled it down until it became sugar. 
If you would have the sugar a beautiful white, you should 
cleanse it with a pint of milk, after breaking in a half- 
dozen eggs. Then you must swing your kettle over the 
hre and, as the boiling begins, the impurities will rise to 
the surface, and you may skim them into a pan for the 
vinegar barrel. All sugar waste must go to the vinegar; 
that is, there must be no waste at all — this is household 
economy. 

''The scum is rising white, little mother." So it is; and 
now, little ones, you shall have a saucerful, each one of 



332 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

you, and you shall be quiet. Half an hour of expert watch- 
fulness prevents the rich brown mass from boihng over. 
Every ounce of white scum is saved for making cookies — 
except, indeed, that which goes for making boys. Now 
the bubbles fill the great kettle, large and expressive; and 
they can hardly be restrained from jumping over into the 
fire. The kettle is swung a Httle off the centre of the blaze. 
Every two minutes a spoonful is given to each boy to 
stir in a saucer. 

''Yes, indeed, little mother, it ropes!" Then the Httle 
mother Hfts it six inches, and, with exacting eye, pours 
it slowly into a pan of snow. No, it does not grain ! No, 
it does not wax ! But it does rope. Little threads of 
syrup fly off into the air as the substance falls from the 
spoon. 

Another three minutes, and ''It waxes, it waxes !" This 
is the golden period of "sugaring off." The dehcious mass, 
as it falls upon snow and is stirred, forms a waxy substance, 
which, once tasted, will never be forgotten. Every stage 
of the process requires that each boy shall test and taste 
it, especially when it waxes. Three minutes more and a 
spoonful, when stirred in a saucer, hardens and grains. 
This is the critical moment ! Swing the kettle clear of 
the fire ! Set it firmly on the hearth ! And now the boys 
by turn must stir it with all their might. It will take two 
hours of vigorous work before the light brunette will be- 
come a beautiful blonde. Before that time comes, alas, 
each little arm will be nearly twisted off with the process. 
At last the hardening mass is poured into tins and set 
aside to be thoroughly cooled. The next day the sugar is 
ready for packing in stone jars, to be kept for family use. 



MAPLE-SUGARING ^^7, 

Some of it may be traded at the store for pins and needles, 
and saleratus and tea. 

There was a broad shelf in every genuine pantry of those 
good old days. It was at one end of a capacious room, 
and on both sides it was flanked by other shelves. On one 
side were pans of milk; on the other were canisters of spices, 
coffee, tea; and there were jars of preserves and pickles. 
The lower shelves were sacred to pies and goodies; while 
under the broad shelf stood the great stone jars of maple 
sugar. Bless my soul ! How I should like to eat one more 
dinner from that broad shelf! Maple sugar and bread 
in equal proportions — and gooseberry jelly with currant 
tarts and caraway cookies. Bless the Lord for memory! 
I can almost compass the dinner at this moment. Under 
the window outside came the chickens, and said as plainly 
as could be: ''What, take our eggs and not give us a share ? 
What, eating and not call us?" Then we spared them 
the crumbs — those that we found in the great wooden 
bread-bowl ! 

I hold it still that a maple sap-bush is the most genu- 
inely native American spot in the land. In England the 
maple trees will not make sugar, and the Norway maples 
give milk. ''In fact," said our father, "we have it all. 
What else do we need? Have we not the fruits and the 
animals and the salt and the sugar?" "And our birds," 
said the Kttle mother, "do they not sing sweeter than 
any others?" "To- be sure," said our father, "what a 
home God has given us ! He has furnished it well." 

E. P. Powell. 




"The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide. 



THE PLOUGHMAN 

Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam ! 
Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking team, 
With toil's bright dewdrops on his sunburnt brow, 
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 



First in the field before the reddening sun, 
Last in the shadows when the day is done, 
Line after Hne, along the bursting sod, 
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod: 



334 



THE PLOUGHMAN 335 

Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide, 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide; 
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, 
Mellow and dark the ridgy corn-field cleaves; 

Up the steep hillside where the laboring train 
Slants the long track that scores the level plain; 
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay, 
The patient convoy breaks its destined way; 

At every turn the loosening chains resound. 
The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round, 
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears. 
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. 

These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings 
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; 
This is the page whose letters shall be seen 
Changed by the sun to words of living green; 

This is the scholar whose immortal pen 
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; 
These are the lines which heaven-commanded Toil 
Shows on his deed — the charter of the soil ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



PLOUGHING 

When I awoke this morning, shortly before dayhght, my 
first thought was: ''To-day I must begin ploughing in the 
field alongside the far woods." But a moment later I 
heard the patter of rain upon the roof, and then I knew 
that I might have a half-hour longer to rest, for no plough- 
ing could be done that day. 

When I spoke of ploughing yesterday to my cousin from 
the city, he said something to me about its being tiresome 
work. 

''No more tiresome," I replied, "than selling tea or 
books, or running a machine, or getting a sermon ready." 

And now on this dull, rainy morning, when I had an 
extra half-hour to do nothing but dream, I began to turn 
over in my mind my cousin's remarks and to ask myself 
whether or not they were really true. ]\Iy cousin, like 
most city people, knew little about ploughing, and I have 
no doubt, as he watched the farmer plodding patiently 
up and down the furrows, it seemed a very easy, but very 
tiresome thing to him. 

"But," I argued with myself, "if it were left to my 
cousin to plough a single one of my fields, I am not at all 
sure just how he would succeed. Would he know, in the 
first place, when the ground was ready, or how long before 
seed-planting the ploughing should be done? Would he 
know just which part of the field he should begin on, and 
whether he should use a right-hand or a left-hand plough ? 
Did he ever notice that in the farmer's fields there are 

33^ 



PLOUGHING 337 

sometimes different kinds of furrows— the flat furrow, 
the overlapping furrow, the rounded furrow? Which of 
these furrows is the best suited to the time of the year, 
to the crop, and to the soil of this particular field ? Should 
he plough a narrow furrow or a wide one, a shallow furrow 
or a deep one, and how can he be sure of making his fur- 
rows the same width and depth? When and how are the 
different divisions or ridges (the 'lands') in the field 
made, and in what part of the field does the dead-furrow 
lie ? Would it make any difference in his plans if I were 
to give him a piece of new land to break, or a field of thick 
weeds to turn under, or a hillside field to plough?" 

''No," I concluded, ''the only sort of work that is 
really tiresome is the kind that is easy and doesn't have 
any problems to make you think, and no one who has 
ever given a serious thought to his farm work can say 
that of ploughing." 

By this time it was raining smartly, and so I lay abed 
a little longer still, and tried to picture to myself what I 
should have been doing if the weather had been fair, and 
what progress I should have made in my ploughing in 
the field by the far woods. 

I do not know why I have a particular liking for that 
field. Perhaps it is because it is out of sight of the houses 
and seems a Httle closer to nature, perhaps because at a 
certain point in the field I can catch a ghmpse of the lake 
beyond the woods, or perhaps it is just the field itself 
with its zigzag rail fence and fringe of bushes and with 
the two beautiful trees, an elm and a maple, that stand at 
either end of the field and serve both for ornament and 
shade. 



338- COUNTRY LIFE READER 

While I am ploughing, my attention must, of course, 
be given almost wholly to the turning of the furrows. 
Here is a root, there a stone, and here again a wet place 
over which I must pass with care. Here among the stub- 
ble is the nest of a field-mouse, made of fine dried grass, 
from which the frightened owner makes a hasty escape. 
At the farther end of the field there is a woodchuck's hole. 
The horses must step wearily here, for the ground is 
treacherous, but the freshly turned furrows will help to 
fill up the holes, and before harrowing time perhaps the 
owner may take the hint to remove. 

Sometimes at the far end of the furrow, next the woods, 
I rest for a moment; and while I am resting I drink in the 
sights and sounds of the fresh spring morning. What 
new birds are back this morning, I wonder? A robin, a 
bluebird, a song-sparrow, a grackle, a killdeer, a meadow- 
lark, these I have heard already for a week past — and, 
yes, there, to be sure, is a flicker and there a brown thrasher ! 
Welcome back, old fellow! The hawthorn with its tangle 
of wild grape-vine is waiting for you on yonder hillside, 
and as long as I can I shall protect you, for I love better 
than most other things your morning song. I can plough 
a better furrow, I think, because of it, and I shall spare 
the old elm-tree if for no other reason than that you sing 
your spring song from its topmost bough. 

My cousin — but this will never do, even if it is raining. 
It never pays to be an hour late for work, even on a farm ! 




A busy corner of bird-land. 



BIRDS OF THE FARM: THE FIELDS 



During the early part of April, when you take your walk 
across the fields you hear a new song, which resembles 
that of the song-sparrow. But when you stop for a mo- 
ment to listen, you notice the difference, and you say to 
yourself: ''Ah, the vesper sparrow has returned." The 
song is not quite so simple and sweet as that of the song- 
sparrow, but it is the familiar vesper song of the April 
fields, and a country walk in these early spring evenings 
would be dull without it. The vesper sparrow is fond of 
the roadside and the lane or the pathway across the fields, 
and as it runs along the path ahead of you, you are sure to 
notice the white tail-feathers, which are its distinguishing 
mark. 

As for the nest of the vesper sparrow, there are few 
people who at some time or other have not seen it. What 

339 



340 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

a sudden start it has given you, in your walk across the 
fields, to hear the rush and whir of wings at your feet, 
and with what a feeling of delight have you turned aside 
the protecting leaf or shrub to disclose to view the snug 
Httle, grass-lined nest, with its five speckled, brownish 
eggs, beneath! 

But in these early spring days there are still two other 
voices of the fields which you cannot easily fail to hear 
and to remember. Very early in the spring the clear, 
melodious whistle of the meadow-lark comes across the 
pasture-land. ''Spring o' the year, spring o' the year," 
he seems to say in his clear, plaintive cry; a moment later 
you catch a glimpse. of his rapid, whizzing flight and hear 
the warning ''Zdt, zdt" of his call-note. 

You are not likely to discover the meadow-lark's nest 
very readily, unless you walk close enough to it to frighten 
the mother bird, for it is carefully concealed under a tus- 
sock of dried grass, with an entrance from the side, so that 
it is protected from rain and wind alike. The meadow- 
lark is, of course, not really a lark at all, but belongs to 
the blackbird family. No doubt the mistaken name is due 
to the fact that, like the larks, he is fond of the meadows 
and pasture-fields. At all events, a blackbird he is, and 
by all odds the most respectable of this rather shady 
family, being of great value to the farmer on account of 
the number of injurious worms and insects he destroys. 

Besides the meadow-lark's "Spring o' the year," in the 
rougher and more rocky pasture-lands you are sure to hear 
the shrill, rapid, cry, "Killdeer, killdeer, killdeer," of the 
killdeer plover, or snipe, as he is often called. There is a 
certain wildness about the killdeer, both in his shrill cry 



BIRDS OF THE FARM: THE FIELDS 341 

and rapid movements, that attracts your attention. His 
nesting-place, however, is generally very hard to discover, 
and when, at last, you have by chance discovered it, in 
the middle of the open pasture or rocky clearing, you are 
surprised to find that 
there is hardly any pre- 
tense for a nest at all 
— only a few rough 
straws in a slight hol- 
bw in the ground, cov- 
ered by the four dark, 
muddy-colored eggs, 
Vv'hich are always ar- 
ranged with their 
smaller ends together 
in the centre. 

As soon as the eggs 
are hatched, the young 
birds, like young chick- 
ens, are able to run; 
and a nest which con- 
tains four killdeer's 

eggs to-day may be entirely bare and empty to-morrow. 
It sometimes happens, in your walks afield, that, without 
being aware of it, you approach either near the nest or 
close to the hiding-place of one of the newly hatched birds. 
Then suddenly your attention is attracted by one of the 
old birds only a few feet away, whose limping gait and 
drooping wing give him every appearance of being badly 
wounded. Very naturally you give chase. The wounded 
bird flutters o£f^ and you follow farther and still farther. 




Meadow-lark. 



342 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



Then, when you are almost sure that you have him, he sud- 
denly recovers, and the wild '^Killdeer, killdeer" from the 
other side of the field seems, like a peal of derisive mockery, 
to warn you how simply and easily you have been fooled. 

Of the birds which 
are found in the fields 
in later spring, proba- 
bly none are better 
known to the farmers' 
boys than the king-bird. 
The crown, from 
which the king-bird 
gets his name, is not 
very conspicuous, but if 
you should brush back 
the feathers of the head, 
you would find a hid- 
den crown patch of 
bright ruby feathers, 
the only touch of color 
that he has. As for 
acting like a king or an 
absolute ruler, the hawks and crows and blue jays, if 
they were called upon, could give abundant evidence of 
that. It is not an uncommon thing, in later summer, to 
see a pair of king-birds in pursuit of an intruding crow, 
one perched on his back and pecking furiously at the feath- 
ers of his neck and head, while the other circles round and 
round, dashing at his victim's eyes and tormenting him at 
every turn. 

The king-bird generally feeds upon the larger insects, 




King-bird. 



BIRDS OF THE FARM: THE FIELDS 



343 



the dragon-flies, beetles, crickets, grasshoppers, cicadas, 
etc., and when food is scarce and bees cross his path, he 
will not refuse them; but the bees form an exceedingly 
small part of his bill of fare. I remember once, a few 
summers ago, being very much interested in watching 
two king-birds acting the part of highwaymen on the 
roadside, in front of the place where I was staying. A 
colony of sand-hornets or digger-wasps, several hundred 
in number, were busy stocking their underground tunnels 
with green grasshoppers and crickets. The king-birds, in 
the meantime, sat on the fence near by and darted out 
from time to time to relieve the hornets of their burdens 
when they arrived with fresh supplies. I do not know 
whether they ate the hornets, too; probably not, for that 
would be hke killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. 
There is nothing of special interest in the nesting habits 
of the king-bird, except that he uses sheep's wool to help 
to hne the nest. Sometimes the wool is not so easily found, 
however, and then there is nothing for it but to take it 
off the backs of the sheep themselves. But the king-bird 
is equal to the occasion, and if you should see him perched 
on the back of a sheep, tugging vigorously at the wool, you 
will know that he is only providing materials for his nest. 




Nest and cg:;s of killdeer plover. 



PLANTING TIME 

Sooner or later every person feels the desire to plant 
something. One of us dreams of a Kttle patch of orchard 
bounded by cool, grassy banks. Another wants a snug 
and tidy garden plat bounded by a wall and a lattice, and 
at one side a tinker's room of tools, rakes and hoes and 
watering-cans. Others want long, trim rows of straw- 
berries, beets, and onions, with beds of lettuce, hills of 
squashes, and clumps of hyssop and sage in the corners. 
Others want tumbling piles of vines shot through with wild 
asters and the spires of hollyhocks. Still others would roam 
afield and find their satisfaction in the things that by 
chance have found a place in which to grow. But, what- 
ever the form of the wish, the substance is the same — it is 
the natural man longing to express himself. It is the desire 
to be alone with something that understands you. I have 
heard the gardener talk to his plants, and not one of them 
disputed with him. 

Have you made a garden all by yourself? Then try 
it, if you have not. Do not give the work over to any one 
else. Yourself thrust the spade into the tender earth. 
Bear your weight on the handle and feel the earth loosen 
and break. Turn over the load. You smell the soft, moist 
odor — an odor that takes you back to your younger 
and freer days or sends you dreaming over the fields. 
You have uncovered the depths where the earthworm 
burrows and the pupa has lain since midsummer. Run 
your fingers through the soil. It is mealy and fine and 

344 



PLANTING TIME 345 

clean. It may have been turned a hundred times, yet it is 
new and virgin. You feel as if you could plant your feet 
in the soil and grow like a plant. Spade up the whole 
bed. Note how the loose earth settles into place as you 
draw your rake back and forth. The moisture steams 
from its bosom, and the drying surface affords a mulch 
to hold the water that lies in its depths. 

You are wondering what is contained in this earth. 
Men have spent their lives to answer that inquiry and 
have died without making the answer complete. One day 
you will drop a speck of matter into the soil — a speck 
so small and round that you must depend on the label 
to tell whether it is a cabbage or turnip or cauHflower or 
mustard— and behold ! a new being comes forth, endowed 
with life, with roots and stem and leaves and flowers and 
fruits and seeds, all unfolding in their appointed season. 
Where is the seat of this mystery that makes one seed un- 
fold into a turnip and another into a cabbage? I often 
wonder how a cabbage-seed knows that it is a cabbage- 
seed. 

Your chief joy in your garden will not be in the vege- 
tables that you eat, nor in the flowers that you pick, but 
in the satisfaction of causing things to grow. You will 
enjoy the companionship of things that are real and clean. 
You will come to know the common and the little things. 
Some time, without knowing it, you will let a pigweed 
grow; and then you will be sorry to pull it up. 

L. H. Bailey. 




Here is air and God's good greenness spread. 



MORNING IN THE NORTHWEST 



Gray countries and grim empires pass away 
And all the pomp and glory of citied towers 
Goes dov/n to dust, and youth itself shall age. 
But, oh, the splendor of this autumn dawn, 
This passes not away ! This dew-drenched range. 
This infinite great width of open space, 
This cool, keen wind that blows like God's own breath 
On Kfe's once drowsy coal, and thrills the blood, 
This brooding sea of sun-washed solitude, 
This virginal vast dome of open air — 
These, these endure, and greater are than grief ! 
Still there is strength; and life, oh, life is good ! 
Still the horizon calls, the morrow lures; 
Still hearts adventurous seek outward trails; 
Still, still life holds its hope ! 
For here is air and God's good greenness spread ! 

346 



MORNING IN THE NORTHWEST 



347 



Here youth audacious fronts the coming day ! 
Here are no huddled cities old in sin, 
Where teem reptilious mirth and golden ease 
And age on youth so mountainously lies ! 
Here hfe takes on a glory and a strength 
Of things still primal, and goes plunging on ! 
And what care we for time-incrusted tombs ? 
W^hat care we here for all the ceaseless drip 
Of tears in countries old in tragedy ? 
WHiat care we here for all earth's creeds outworn, 
The dreams outhved, the hopes to ashes turned, 
In that old East so dark with rain and doubt ? 
Here hfe swings glad and free and rude, and youth 
Shall drink it to the full, and go content ! 

Arthur Stringer. 




This infinite great width of open space. 



CLOVER AND TIMOTHY 

On nearly every farm where hay crops are grown for 
feeding stock you are Hkely to find a field in which a 
mixed crop of clover and timothy is growing, and perhaps 
you may wonder why the farmer should plant these two 
crops in the same field instead of growing them separately. 
If you were to ask any intelligent farmer why he does so, 
he would probably tell you, as one of his reasons, that a 
mixture of clover and timothy makes better food for his 
Hve stock than either clover or timothy alone. People 
who have made a study of the different kinds of food that 
animals require, tell us that there are five different things 
that ought to be included in their food. These five things 
(which are known as food principles) are: carbohydrates, 
protein, fat, mineral matter, and water. Carbohydrates 
supply heat and energy, while protein provides the ma- 
terial for building up the body. Now, it happens that 
clover contains a large amount of protein, while timothy 
is composed chiefly of carbohydrates; so that when animals 
are fed a mixture of clover and timothy, they get a supply 
of both kinds of food. Young growing animals must have 
protein to supply them with muscle and tissue; work- 
horses must have protein to help to keep the body in re- 
pair, and cows must have protein in order that they may 
keep up their supply of milk. It is possible, of course, to 
supply them with protein from other kinds of food, but 
the fact that clover supplies it more easily and cheaply 
than anything else is one reason, at least, why some farmers 

348 



CLOVER AND TIMOTHY 349 

prefer to sow a mixed crop of clover and timothy in the 
same field. 

Another reason which a practical farmer might give for 
growing the two crops together, is that the mixture of 
clover with timothy helps to make the soil richer, while a 
crop of timothy alone leaves the soil in a poorer condition 
than before. But in order to understand this statement we 
must, in the first place, notice some of the differences be- 
tween clover and timothy. If you will compare a full- 
grown clover plant with a stalk of timothy, you will find 
that they bear their seeds in different ways. The seeds 
of the clover are contained in little sacs, while those of 
the timothy grow in a cluster (called a spike) at the end 
of a long stem. Plants such as clover, alfalfa, peas, beans, 
and vetches, which bear their seeds in sacs or pods, are 
known as legumes; while plants such as timothy, wheat, 
barley, and oats, which bear their seeds in clusters on the 
stem, are known as grasses. If you look closely at the 
roots of the clover, or of any other legume, you will notice 
that they have a number of little sacs (called tubercules 
or nodules) attached to them, which you do not find on 
the roots of timothy. These nodules, as we have already 
seen, contain nitrogen, which is suppHed by the bacteria 
that five on the roots of clover and other legumes. The 
result is, that wherever clover is grown it leaves the ground 
richer in nitrogen than before, while, on the other hand, 
grasses such as timothy take nitrogen from the soil and 
leave it poorer. 

In comparing the two kinds of plants, you will notice, 
too, that the roots of the clover go much deeper into the 
soil than those of timothy. This means, of course, that 



350 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

the clover draws most of its food and moisture from a 
different part of the soil from the timothy. A mixed crop 
of clover and timothy is, for this reason, not so hard on 
the soil as a crop of pure timothy, which draws all its food 
from the surface of the soil and at the same time exhausts 
the supply of nitrogen. 



A SONG OF CLOVER 

I wonder what the clover thinks . 
Intimate friend of bobolinks, 
Lover of daisies slim and white, 
Waltzer with buttercups at night; 
Keeper of inn for travelHng bees, 
Serving to them wine dregs and lees, 
Left by the royal humming-birds, 
Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; 
Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, 
Kissed by the dewdrops, one by one; 
Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, 
Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, 
Sweet in its white, sweet in its red — 
Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said; 
Sweet in its every living breath. 
Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death ! 
Oh, who knows what the clover thinks ? 
No one, unless the bobolinks ! 

Saxe Holm. 




'Half its sweetness cannot be said." 



PAYING MY WAY 

(David Grayson is a well-to-do farmer who has left his farm for 
a few weeks to journey through the country on foot, to see how 
other farmers hve and what they live for. He has taken food 
enough with him to last him only a few days and, after going hungry 
for a day, he is forced at last to try to secure his supper and a 
night's lodging at one of the farmhouses along the way.) 

Presently I saw from the road a farmer and his son 
planting potatoes in a sloping field. There was no house 
at all in view. At the bars stood a light wagon half filled 
with bags of seed-potatoes, and the horse which had drawn 
it stood quietly, not far off, tied to the fence. The man 
and the boy, each with a basket on his arm, were at the 
farther end of the field, dropping potatoes. I stood quietly 
watching them. They stepped quickly and kept their eyes 
on the furrows — good workers. I liked the looks of them. 
I liked, also, the straight, clean furrows; I Hked the ap- 
pearance of the horse. 

^'I will stop here," I said to myself. 

I cannot at all convey the sense of high adventure I 
had as I stood there. Though I had not the slightest idea 
of what I should do or say, yet I was determined upon 
the attack. 

Neither father nor son saw me until they had nearly 
reached the end of the field. 

^'Step lively, Ben," I heard the man say with some im- 
patience, ''we've got to finish this field to-day." 

''I am steppin' lively, dad," responded the boy, ''but 

352 



PAYING MY WAY 353 

it's awful hot. We can't possibly finish to-day. It's too 
much." 

''We've got to get through here to-day," the man re- 
plied grimly; ''we're already two weeks late." 

I know just how that man felt; for I knew well the dif- 
ficulty a farmer has in getting help in planting time. The 
spring waits for no man. My heart went out to the man 
and boy struggling there in the heat of their sloping field. 
For this is the real warfare of the common fife. 

''Why/' I said to myself with a curious hft of the heart, 
"they have need of a fellow just like me." 

At that moment the boy saw me, and, missing a step 
in the rhythm of the planting, the father also looked up 
and saw me. But neither said a word until the furrows 
were finished and the planters came to refill their bas- 
kets. 

"Fine afternoon," I said, sparring for an opening. 

"Fine," responded the man rather shortly, glancing 
up from his work. I recalled the scores of times I had 
been exactly in his place and had glanced up to see the 
stranger in the road. 

"Got another basket handy?" I asked. 

"There is one somewhere around here," he answered 
not too cordially. The boy said nothing at all, but eyed 
me with absorbing interest. The gloomy look had already 
gone from his face. 

I sHpped my gray bag from my shoulder, took off my 
coat, and put them both down inside the fence. Then I 
found the basket and began to fill it from one of the bags. 
Both man and boy looked up at me questioningly. I 
enjoyed the situation immensely. 



354 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

^'I heard you say to your son," I said, "that you'd 
have to hurry in order to get in your potatoes to-day. I 
can see that for myself. Let me take a hand for a row 
or two." 

The unmistakable shrewd look of the bargainer came 
suddenly into the man's face, but when I went about my 
business without hesitation or questioning, he said nothing 
at all. As for the boy, the change in his countenance was 
marvellous to see. Something new and astonishing had 
come into the world. Oh, I know what a thing it is to be 
a boy and have to work in trouting time ! 

"How near are you planting, Ben?" I asked. 

"About fourteen inches." 

So we began in fine spirits. I was delighted with the 
favorable beginning of my enterprise; , there is nothing 
which so draws men together as their employment at a 
common task. 

Ben was a lad some fifteen years old — very stout and 
stocky, with a fine open countenance and a frank blue 
eye — all boy. His nose was as freckled as the back of a 
trout. The whole situation, including the prospect of 
help in finishing a tiresome job, pleased him hugely. He 
stole a ghmpse from time to time at me and then at his 
father. Finally he said: 

"Say, you'll have to step lively to keep up with dad." 

"I'll show you," I said, "how we used to drop potatoes 
when I was a boy." 

And with that I began to step ahead more quickly and 
make the pieces fairly fly. 

"We old fellows," I said to the father, "must give these 
young sprouts a lesson once in a while." 



PAYING MY WAY 355 

"You will, will you?" responded the boy, and instantly 
began to drop the potatoes at a prodigious speed. The 
father followed with more dignity, but with evident amuse- 
ment, and so we all came with a rush to the end of the 
row. 

"I guess that beats the record across this field!" re- 
marked the lad, puffing and wiping his forehead. ''Say, 
but you're a good one!" 

It gave rrie a pecuHar thrill of pleasure; there is nothing 
more pleasing than the frank admiration of a boy. 

We paused a moment and I said to the man: 

"This looks like fine potato land." 

"The' isn't any better in these parts," he replied with 
some pride in his voice. 

And so we went at the planting again; and as we planted, 
we had great talk of seed-potatoes and the advantages and 
disadvantages of mechanical planters, of cultivating and 
spraying, and all the lore of prices and profits. Once we 
stopped at the lower end of the field to get a drink from a 
jug of water set in the shade of a fence corner, and once 
we set the horse in the thills and moved the seed farther 
up the field. And, tired and hungry as I felt, I really en- 
joyed the work; I really enjoyed talking with this busy 
father and son, and I wondered what their home life was 
like and what were their real ambitions and hopes. Thus 
the sun sank lower and lower, the long shadows began to 
creep into the valleys, and we came finally toward the end 
of the field. Suddenly the boy Ben cried out: 

"There's Sis!" 

I glanced up and saw standing near the gateway a slim, 
bright girl of about twelve in a fresh gingham dress. 



356 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

''We're coming!" roared Ben exultantly. 

While we were hitching up the horse, the man said to 
me: 

''You'll come down with us and have some supper?" 

''Indeed I will," I repHed, trying not to make my re- 
sponse too eager. 

"Did mother make gingerbread to-day?" I heard the 
boy whisper audibly. 

"Sh-h-" replied the girl, "who is that man?" 

"I don't know" — with a great accent of mystery — 
"and dad doesn't know. Did mother make gingerbread?" 

"Sh-h— he'll hear you." 

"Gee! but he can plant potatoes. He dropped down 
on us out of a clear sky." 

"What is he?" she asked. "A tramp?" 

"Nope, not a tramp. He works. But, Sis, did mother 
make gingerbread?" 

So we all got into the Hght wagon and drove briskly 
out along the shady country road. The evening was 
coming on, and the air was full of the scent of blossoms. 
We turned finally into a lane and thus came promptly, 
for the horse was as eager as we, to the capacious farm- 
yard. A motherly woman came out from the house, spoke 
to her son, and nodded pleasantly to me. There was no 
especial introduction. I said merely, "My name is Gray- 
son," and I was accepted without a word. 

I waited to help the man, whose name I had now learned 
— it was Stanley — with his horse and wagon, and then we 
came up to the house. Near the back door there was a 
pump, with a bench and basin set just within a Httle 
cleanly swept, open shed. Rolling back my collar and 



PAYING MY WAY 357 

baring my arms, I washed myself in the cool water, dashing 
it over my head until I gasped, and then stepping back, 
breathless and refreshed, I found the slim girl, Mary, 
at my elbow with a clean, soft towel. As I stood wiping 
quietly I could smell the ambrosial odors from the kitchen. 
In all my hfe I never enjoyed a moment more than that, 
I think. 

'Xome in now," said the motherly Mrs. Stanley. 

So we filed into the roomy kitchen, where an older girl, 
called Kate, was flying about placing steaming dishes 
upon the table. There was also an older son, who had 
been at the farm chores. It was altogether a fine, vigorous, 
independent family. So we all sat down and drew up 
our chairs. Then we paused a moment, and the father, 
bowing his head, said in a low voice: 

''For all Thy good gifts. Lord, we thank Thee. Preserve 
us and keep us through another night." 

I suppose it was a very ordinary farm meal, but it seems 
to me I never tasted a better one. The huge piles of new 
baked bread, the sweet farm butter, already dehcious with 
the flavor of new grass, the bacon and eggs, the potatoes, 
the rhubarb sauce, the great plates of new, hot ginger- 
bread, and, at the last, the custard pie— a great wedge of 
it. After the first ravenous appetite of hard-working men 
was satisfied, there came to be a good deal of lively con- 
versation. The girls had some joke between them which 
Ben was trying in vain to fathom. The older son told how 
much milk a certain Alderney cow had given, and Mr. 
Stanley, quite changed now as he sat at his own table, 
from the rather grim farmer of the afternoon, revealed a 
capacity for a husky sort of fun, joking with Ben about 



358 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

his potato-planting and telling in a lively way of his race 
with me. As for Mrs. Stanley, she sat smiHng behind her 
tall coffee-pot, radiating good cheer and hospitahty. They 
asked me no questions at all, and I was so hungry and 
tired that I volunteered no information. 

After supper we went out for half or three quarters of 
an hour to do some final chores, and Mr. Stanley and I 
stopped in the cattle yard and looked over the cows and 
talked learnedly about the pigs, and I admired his spring 
calves to his heart's content, for they really were a fine 
lot. When we came in again, the lamps had been Hghted 
in the sitting-room, and the older daughter was at the 
telephone exchanging the news of the day with some 
neighbor — and with great laughter and enjoyment. 

David Grayson. 



CONTENTMENT 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too, 

As the sunshine or rain may prevail; 
And a small spot of ground for the use of my spade, too, 

With a barn for the use of my flail; 
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game. 

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; 
I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame. 

Nor what honors await him to-morrow. 




May-apples at home. 



WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS 

In your walks in the fields and woods in late spring and 
early summer, you will find it interesting, in your study of 
flowers, to notice the various means which they have made 
use of to attract the insects. For most of the flowers, as 
you know, would not develop into fruit if it were not for 
the insects which carry pollen dust from flower to flower. 
The bee is a welcome visitor to most flowers, because he is 
sure to carry away a supply of pollen dust on his hairy 
coat. And so the flowers put on their gayest colors and 
send out their sweetest perfumes in order to attract the 
bees to the stores of honey which they contain. But the 
ants are unwelcome, because they do not carry pollen to 
other flowers. And so the plants have adopted many dif- 
ferent devices to keep them from robbing their flowers of 
the honey which is intended for the bees. 

One of the May flowers that has made special provision 
for attracting the bees is the violet. You wifl notice in 
the first place, that the violet has the habit of bending the 

359 



36o COUNTRY LIFE READER 

head down, in order to keep the spring rains from washing 
away the nectar and perfume ahke. If you were to ex- 
amine the cup of the violet closely, you would find that 
its throat is filled with a net-work of little hairs, so as to 
keep the ants from getting at the store of sweets that are 
intended only for the bee. And bashful Httle Miss Violet 
has adorned herself with a special veining in the form of 
two dehcate purple lines called ''honey guides," which, it 
is supposed, are intended to guide the bee to the point in 
the flower where the honey-sac is concealed. 

Before May is far advanced, in some moist, shaded spot 
on the hillside, you may perhaps find the white-hearts, or 
Dutchman's-breeches. Everything about the white-hearts 
seems to be in keeping, for even the leaf is as delicately 
cut as a fern, and it would be hard to find anything more 
dainty than the long row of drooping white and yellow 
heart-shaped flowers. But there is one thing that you 
are likely to ask concerning these flowers — where is the 
honey kept, and how do the bees get at it? Would you 
believe it? It is kept at the bottom of the legs of the 
''breeches," where the ants and even the bees find it hard 
to reach. But even in the world of nature, strange to say, 
there is sometimes bold burglary and highway robbery, 
and you may frequently find a whole colony of Dutch- 
man's-breeches where the robbers have been at work. 
What do they do? Simply cut a hole into the side of the 
flower and boldly drain the sweets. This, of course, means 
death to the white-hearts, for now that the nectar is gone 
no moth or bee will come to carry the precious, life-giving 
pollen from flower to flower, and, as a consequence, its 
seeds will not mature. 



WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS 361 

But even if the ants and bees are sometimes highway 
robbers, the flowers themselves are not entirely free from 
blame. Almost every boy and girl is familiar with the 
Jack-in-the-pulpit, one of the most common of the wild 
lilies found in the moist, shady May woods. The "pulpit" 
is one of those quaint, old-fashioned affairs with a canopy 
overhead, and the preacher is boxed in, in quite a different 
way from those in our modern churches. A pulpit it is, 
however, but, alas ! Jack is a sad knave of a preacher and 
a betrayer of his trust. This is the way he works his 
schemes: Perhaps you may have noticed that some of 
the "pulpits" are smaller than the others. These are 
the flowers which contain the pollen; the larger ones con- 
tain the seeds, which, of course, will not mature unless 
sprinkled with the pollen from the smaller flowers. The 
fly that crawls into the smaller pulpit, attracted by the 
nectar, finds it impossible to get out again, for the inside 
of the flower cup is too slippery to climb, and there is no 
space for him to spread his wings. So he is left for a day 
or two to crawl helplessly around the floor of the pulpit, 
until, at last, when he is thoroughly dusted with pollen, 
the side of his prison suddenly opens out, and he is per- 
mitted to escape. And then — foolish fly ! Instead of 
profiting by experience, he is tempted into another Jack- 
in-the-pulpit near by — one of the larger ones this time, 
perhaps. His load of pollen dust is just what is required, 
but the walls of the pulpit are. just as slippery as before, 
and this time Jack, having got his pay, refuses to open 
the door and let his visitor escape. So for every Jack- 
in-the-pulpit that blossoms in the woods, one insect at 
least has died a miserable death. 



362 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



Every country boy is acquainted with the Indian turnip, 
with its accompanying cluster of beautiful scarlet berries, 
which are nothing more or less than the root and fruit 
of Jack-in-the-pulpit. The boys sometimes call the In- 
dian turnip by another name — memory-root — because the 




Blossom of May-apple. 



Hedge-bindweed. 



boy who has once incautiously tasted of it, and smarted 
in consequence, is not likely soon to forget his rash ex- 
perience. The Indians, however, were in the habit of 
boihng it so as to take away the sharpness, and their 
fondness of it in this form has given it its common name 
of Indian turnip. 

You know that May is already far advanced when the 
mandrakes, or May-apples, begin to bloom. The sun is 
getting warm, too, for this pretty lady with the com- 
plexion of pearls refuses to come forth without her para- 
sol, or umbrella, rather, and under this she hides from the 



WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS 363 



storm and sun alike. A pretty lady, we said — but, alas ! 
that is all that we can say, for the root and leaf alike are 
deadly poison, and the big, white, pearly flower has a 
strong, harsh odor which, as usual, is intended to attract 
the flies. The May-apples themselves, 'Vild lemons/' as 
they are sometimes called, 
are not poisonous, and the 
children sometimes eat 
them, but it cannot be said 
that their sweetish flavor 
is agreeable to the taste. 
And they are, of course, not 
^'May-apples" at ah, for 
they are not apples and 
they do not ripen in ]\Iay. 
Among the tangled 
growth of the fence cor- 
ners along the country 
roads, in early June, we 
are likely to find the wild 

morning-glory, or hedge-bindweed, as it is generally 
called. The interesting thing about the hedge-bindweed 
is that it is one of the flowers that remain open during the 
night as well as the day. The big, bell-shaped tube is 
meant to attract the moths that fly in the night-time, and 
the flowers are nearly white, too; for what is the use of an 
array of color, when the moths who are its visitors and 
carry the pollen from flower to flower cannot see any of 
the beautiful shades? Most of these night-blooming 
flowers have a strong fragrance, but the bindweed has 
none, and trusts altogether to the whiteness of its bell- 




Purple-tlowering raspberry. 



3^4 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



shaped tube glimmering in the moonhght to attract its 
favored friends. 
Another June flower, the very opposite in nature to the 

hedge-bindweed, is the pur- 
ple-flowering raspberry. Its 
rich purple color shows 
that it blooms by day, and 
that its best friend is the 
bee; and if you examine it 
closely you will find that 
its stem is clammy and 
sticky, so as to keep off the 
unwelcome ant. It is a 
very beautiful flower, but 
its beauty is not to be 
meddled with, for the pet- 
als are almost sure to drop 
off if you touch it, and it 
looks very draggled and 
wilted before you get far 
on your way toward home. 
Before June is far ad- 
vanced, along the roadside 
or in the rougher parts of 
the pasture-field you are 
Hkely to meet with the first 
milkweed blossoms of the 
summer. The milkweed 
is a general favorite among the insects, and it is in- 
teresting to stop for a few minutes to watch what 
visitors the milkweed flowxrs have, and how they fare. 




The milkweed. 



WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS 365 

The ants, of course, are barred, for not only is the stem 
covered with fine hairs, which prevent them from cHmb- 
ing, but it is sticky, and the ant can no more cHmb it 
then you can walk through 
a wet clay field after a rain. 
But the bees are welcome — 
the only really welcome vis- 
itors it has. Watch one of 
them as it sips the nectar. 
Ah, there, indeed! One of 
its feet has slipped into a 
crack in the side of the 
flower, and it cannot draw it 
out without dragging with 
it the lining of the hole and 
a big mass of pollen too. 
Then away it flies to an- 
other flower, where the bur- 
den of pollen is gratefully 
received. But see ! Here 
comes a fly. Lucky fellow ! 
He has managed to get a 
sip of the nectar without 
falling into the trap. But 
his neighbor, feeding on 
the next flower, is not so 
fortunate — and, tug with all 
his might, he is not strong 
enough to draw out the lining of the hole in which his 
foot has been caught, and so he is left to struggle, and 
at last to die — and all for the purpose, apparently, of 




The pitcher-plant. 



366 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

simply teaching him a lesson not to trespass on the feed- 
ing-ground that is meant for the bee. 

In the case of the milkweed, the smaller insects can al- 
ways get away if they are only strong enough, but with 
the pitcher-plant that is growing in the marsh at the edge 
of the pond, a little farther on, the conditions are quite 
different. The flowers, which blossom in June, are ex- 
ceedingly beautiful and dehcate — and, to give them their 
due, they are innocent enough. But the leaves, almost 
as cunningly as a conscious being, have apparently set 
themselves dehberately to tempt and snare any unfor- 
tunate insect that comes in their way. They are folded 
up somewhat in the shape of a horn, and the inside surface 
is smeared with honey, to tempt the victim and lure him 
in. He enters and descends, but in a moment, when he 
wishes to return, he finds, too late, that retreat is impos- 
sible. A bristhng forest of hairs, pointing downward, 
makes it impossible for him to climb the walls of his prison, 
and the unfortunate victim usually meets his death in 
the water with which the innocent-looking "pitcher'' is 
always partly filled. It seems, at first sight, strange that 
such a harmless-looking plant should be such an ogre, but 
it is in reahty the same old story of nature over again. 
The pitcher-plant must live, by fair means or foul, and, 
what nourishment it cannot derive from the water and 
soil, it endeavors to make up for by entrapping and then 
absorbing and digesting its unsuspecting, and perhaps over- 
greedy, insect visitors. 



THE TOBACCO-PLANT 

In the case of some farm plants, such as tomatoes, the 
farmer's chief care is to produce large, well-formed fruit; 
and in order to improve the quality of his fruit, he tries 
to prevent the plant from growing too much to leaf. But 
some plants, such as lettuce and cabbage, are grown only 
for the sake of the leaves, which are used for food. To- 
bacco is another plant which is grown for its leaves; but 
in the case of the tobacco-plant the question is not, "Of 
what value is it for food?" but, ''How will it burn and 
what kind of smoke will it produce?" 

The tobacco-plant grows to a height of from three to 
five feet, and its leaves are very large; but in growing 
tobacco the quality of the leaf must be taken into account 
as well as its size. If we could make a collection of to- 
bacco leaves grown in different soils we should find that 
they would differ very greatly in quality. Here, for ex- 
ample, is a fine, silky leaf, grown in light sandy soil, which 
is used in making wrappers for cigars; here is another 
variety, grown in a light loam soil, which is used for the 
inside covers, or "binders," for cigars; a third variety, 
grown in heavier soil, is used chiefly for fillers; and there 
are a multitude of other varieties, which are used in the 
manufacture of different grades of plug tobacco and 
cigarettes. As a rule, plants that are grown in heavy 
clay soil have heavy, gummy leaves, which are dark in 
color when cured; while plants that are grown on light 

367 



368 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

sandy soil have thin silky leaves, which are yellow or light 
red in color when cured. 

But whatever the variety may be, all tobacco crops are 
grown in much the same way. Young tobacco-plants are 
grown from seed in cold-frames or in hotbeds. The seeds 
of tobacco are very small, and in order to sow them evenly 
it is necessary to mix them with some other material, such 
as finely sifted ashes or bone-meal. After the seed is sown, 
cheese-cloth or light canvas is laid over the glass of the 
hotbed to keep the sun from burning the young plants. 
When the seedhngs have grown five or six inches high, 
and have from four to six leaves, they are ready for trans- 
planting. They are usually set out about the first of June, 
about six or eight weeks after planting, when all danger of 
late frosts is past. 

The soil in the field into which the seedhngs are trans- 
planted must be specially prepared. In the first place, 
in order to secure the best results, the soil must be well 
fertiUzed, and must be treated with lime; for the burning 
qualities of the leaf depend to some extent upon the kinds 
of plant-food that the soil contains. The ground is then 
ploughed and harrowed so as to produce a fine surface 
soil. In some districts the surface of the ground is burned 
to a depth of two or three inches in order to kill the weed 
seeds and insects. Sometimes the ground is covered with 
brushwood, which is set on fire. In other cases the sur- 
face soil is heated in a special sort of sheet-iron stove, 
which is moved across the field; while in still other cases 
the weed seeds and insects are killed by steam heat, which 
is applied to the soil. 

The seedhngs are set out in rows from three to four feet 



THE TOBACCO-PLANT 369 

apart, and a space of from sixteen inches to three feet is 
left between the plants, according to variety. As long as 
the size of the plants permits, the ground must be culti- 
vated and hoed, to keep the surface soil loose and to de- 
stroy the weeds; but in the later stages of growth the cul- 
tivation must be shallow so as not to injure the roots 
which are near the surface. When the seed heads have 
begun to develop, and before the plants have come to 
bloom, they must be ''topped." Topping consists in 
breaking off the crown of the plant, so that its strength 
will go into the leaves rather than to the formation of seed. 
After the plant has been topped, new shoots or ''suckers" 
are likely to grow out of the stalk, and these shoots must 
also be broken off. 

The leaves of the growing plant are sometimes attacked 
by the tobacco flea-beetle, or "flea-bug," a small insect 
of a reddish-brown color; or by different kinds of tobac- 
co-worms, or caterpillars. One of these tobacco-worms, 
called the "horn-blower," is a very large, green cater- 
piflar, from two to three inches in length. Both the flea- 
bug and the tobacco-worms may be destroyed by spraying 
the plants with arsenate of lead; but they can both be 
kept down to some extent by destroying the weeds around 
the edges of the field, which attract the beetles and the 
moths which produce caterpillars. 

When the leaves of the plant have changed to a hght- 
green color, it is time to harvest the crop. The plants are 
cut off close to the ground; and after they have wilted 
they are hung on pointed laths— four plants to a lath— 
and these laths are placed on racks in the barn, where the 
leaves are to be dried, or "cured." Sometimes instead of 



370 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

cutting down the whole plant, the leaves are stripped off 
as they ripen, and are strung on wires or cords to be hung 
up in the curing-barn. 

Tobacco is cured, or dried, in a number of different ways. 
In some districts it is hung up in curing barns or sheds, in 
which the air is heated by pipes or flues. Tobacco which 
is cured in this way is known as flue-cured tobacco. In 
other districts the leaves are cured by means of open fires, 
the smoke of which gives a special flavor to the tobacco. 
Tobacco which is cured in this way is known as fire-cured 
tobacco. The method of curing, as weU as the kind of 
soil in which it is grown, has much to do with the color 
of the tobacco. 

The tobacco-plant is a native of America, and the larger 
part of the tobacco crop of the world is grown in the United 
States. The leading tobacco States are Kentucky, Vir- 
ginia, North CaroHna, Tennessee, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New 
York, Wisconsin, South CaroHna, Connecticut, Maryland, 
and Missouri. 



A little sun, a little rain, 

A soft wind blowing from the west — 
And woods and fields are sweet again. 

And warmth within the mountain's breast. 

So simple is the earth we tread, 

So quick with love and life her frame. 

Ten thousand years have dawned and fled, 
And stin her magic is the same. 

Stopford Brooke. 



SUMMER 



d?. 



'..^^^ 



THE COUNTRY FAITH 

Here in the country's heart, 
Where the grass is green, 

Life is the same sweet Hfe 
As it e'er hath been. 

Trust in a God still lives, 

And the bell at morn 
Floats with a thought of God 

O'er the rising corn. 

God comes down in the rain, 
And the crop grows tall — 

This is the country faith, 
And the best of all ! 

Norman Gale. 




I 



c? 



©£fcwC^>^^ 



^i^S^? 




The monarch of the prairies. 



THE PRAIRIES 



These are the gardens of the Desert, these 
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 
For which the speech of England has no name — 
The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
Takes in the encirchng vastness. Lo ! they stretch 
In airy undulations, far away, 
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, 
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed 
And motionless for ever. — Motionless ? 
No — they are all unchained again. The clouds 
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 

373 



374 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; 

Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 

The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South ! 

Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, 

And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 

Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not — ye have played 

Among the palms of Mexico and vines 

Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 

That from the fountains of Sonora glide 

Into the calm Pacific — have ye fanned 

A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? 

Man hath no part in all this glorious work: 

The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 

And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes 

With herbage, planted them with island groves. 

And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor 

For this magnificent temple of the sky — 

With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 

Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 

Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love — 

A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue. 

Than that which bends above our eastern hifls. 

Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, 
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 
A more adventurous colonist than man, 



THE PRAIRIES 375 

With whom he came across the eastern deep, 

Fills the savannas with his murmurings, 

And hides his sweets, as in the golden age. 

Within the hollow oak. I listen long 

To his domestic hum, and think I hear 

The sound of that advancing multitude 

Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground 

Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 

Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 

Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 

Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 

Over the dark-brow^n furrows. All at once 

A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream. 

And I am in the wilderness alone. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




" The surface ruUs and lluctuates to the eye. 



ALFALFA— '^ THE BEST FODDER" 

Alfalfa is the name given to a legume which is grown very 
extensively in some parts of the country as food for live 
stock. The name ''alfalfa" comes from an Arabic word 
meaning ''the best fodder," and, as we shall see later, there 
are reasons why it is considered better than other kinds of 
fodder for horses and cattle. It was introduced into North 
America many years ago, at first from Europe, and later 
from South America; but it is only in recent years that 
farmers have given very much attention to growing it. 
It was thought at first that it was suited only for the very 
dry lands of the West; but it is now known that, under 
proper conditions, it can be grown in nearly all parts of 
the country. 

Let us suppose that, with your father's permission, you 
wish to make the attempt to grow a crop of alfalfa in one 
of the fields of his farm, and that you wish to know before- 
hand what your chances are of making it a success. You 
may be sure, in the first place, that your crop will be a 
failure if the field is not properly drained, for alfalfa will 
not grow upon wet ground, and the drainage should be 
such as to carry off the surplus water to a depth of at least 
three feet. Then you must make a test of your soil to see 
if it is acid, or "sour," for alfalfa will grow only on soils 
that are sweetened by an abundance of lime. And if your 
soil is hard and lumpy, your alfalfa will not grow nearly 
so well as if it were loosened and enriched by a plentiful 

376 



ALFALFA— ''THE BEST FODDER" 377 

suppl}^ of barn-yard manure. You cannot expect a good 
crop of alfalfa unless the soil contains a good deal of humus. 

But even though the soil itself is in good condition, 
something else is needed in order to make your alfalfa 
grow. Alfalfa, as we have learned, is a legume, and 
legumes will not grow unless the soil contains the bacteria 
which supply them with nitrogen; and different legumes 
require different kinds of bacteria. So it might happen 
that your alfalfa plants would not grow because the right 
kind of bacteria were not present in the soil. Before you 
sow your alfalfa, then, you must take pains to supply your 
soil with bacteria. The easiest way to do this is to sprinkle 
your soil with earth from a field in the neighborhood in 
which alfalfa has already been grown, or with earth from 
around the roots of the sweet clover, which makes use of 
the same sort of bacteria as alfalfa. This earth, it is well 
to remember, should be harrowed into your field before 
the sun has had a chance to shine on it too long, for strong 
sunlight will kill the bacteria. 

Now that you know upon what kind of soil alfalfa will 
grow, the next thing about which you must learn is the 
method of cultivation. The young alfalfa crop is in greater 
danger from weeds than from any other enemy; and the 
ground must be prepared in such a way that the weeds 
will have little chance to grow. Just because of this danger 
from weeds, alfalfa is generally sown after a cultivated 
crop such as corn or potatoes, and in some parts of the 
country it is planted with oats or barley, which helps to 
choke out the weeds. Alfalfa is usually sown some time 
between April and August, according to the soil and the 
locality. Generally from ten to fifteen pounds of seed 



^^^ COUNTRY LIFE READER 

per acre is required. For the best results the seed should 
be planted with a drill, from one to two inches deep. After 
the young plants appear it is sometimes necessary to clip 
the field with a mower, in order to keep down the weeds. 
As soon as the new buds begin to appear at the base of 
the stalks, it is time to harvest the first crop. This is 
generally early in June, when the plants are beginning to 
flower. When the alfalfa is cut, the harvest should be 
rushed forward so as to clear the field for the second crop, 
which is already beginning to grow. 

It is easy to understand why farmers who have raised 
alfalfa should put so high a value on it as a farm crop. In 
the first place, it contains as much protein, pound for pound, 
as wheat bran, and nearly twice as much as clover; and 
when fed under proper conditions, it is literally ''the best 
fodder" obtainable for farm stock. Besides this, it pro- 
duces from three to five crops in a season and, acre for 
acre, gives more than double the yield of either clover or 
timothy. And finally, aside from its value as fodder, it 
enriches the soil. Its long roots run down deep into the 
earth, so that it is able to draw both food and moisture 
from lower levels in the soil, which the roots of other plants 
do not reach. And, like other legumes, it draws nitrogen 
from the air and stores it away in nodules, so that when a 
field of alfalfa is ploughed up, the ground is richer in plant- 
food than before it was sown. 

The desert riders of ancient times knew nothing of mod- 
ern methods of farming, but in one thing at least they 
anticipated the twentieth-century farmer, when they dis- 
covered the value of this wonderful legume and gave to it 
the appropriate name of alfalfa, ''the best fodder." 









•:i V 












"'^''\-#l 


^.. 




^% 


^. 


., 


(i 


■• 


''Mj^^m 




fe 


v^ 


-s^H 


^ 


^ 


i 


1 


« ■ 






'M 




HTai 


H 




pi 


ffl' 


r^i^^tjCpfwBj 


^H^- p9 




■'■ 


■a 




1 






HL-^ 








\<*yi V.-. i" 


p- 





Flowers, fruit, and honey. 



A COLONY OF HONEY-BEES 



A colony of honey-bees consists of three classes of in- 
dividuals — the queen bee, the workers, and the drones. 
The queen bee is the mother of the colony and lays all 
the eggs from which the workers and drones are hatched. 
The workers are female bees which lay no eggs, but which 
gather pollen and honey and do the work of the hive. 
Every hive contains thousands of worker bees. The 
drones are the male bees; these bees do no work, and there 
are only a few hundred drones in the hive. These three 
kinds of bees are easily distinguished, both by appearance 
and size; for the workers are smaller than either the queen 
or the drones. 

A properly constructed bee-hive consists of a box con- 

379 



380 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

taining a number of vertical frames which can be easily 
removed. These frames are generally so constructed that 
a small space is left between the frame and the hive, just 
sufficiently wide for a bee to pass through. This opening 
is known as a "bee-space." 

Within each of the frames the workers build two rows 
of six-sided wax cells placed end to end, and in these cells 
the eggs are laid, and the young are reared; here also 
the honey is stored. The cells are of different sizes, some 
for rearing workers, larger ones for rearing drones, and 
still others for storing honey. But bee-keepers are able 
to control the number of worker cells by providing a foun- 
dation sheet of wax indented with the size and shape of 
the cells desired. The bees follow these indentations in 
building up their comb. 

In spring, when the weather grows warm, the queen 
begins to lay eggs in the worker cells. Within three days 
these eggs hatch out into tiny ''worms," or larvae, which 
grow large enough in a few days more to fill the cells. 
The cells are then capped over, the larvae spin cocoons, and 
in twenty-one days from the time the eggs are laid the 
young bees hatch out. 

When the hive has become filled with workers, the 
queen lays eggs in the larger cells, and these develop into 
drones. Now it is plain that the family cannot continue 
to increase in size unless some other home is provided. 
But a new colony cannot be formed without providing a 
new queen for those who are left behind. So the workers 
begin to make ready for the change by building a number 
of queen cells, which are of a larger size and different 
shape from the others. When the eggs which are laid in 



A COLONY OF HONEY-BEES 381 

these cells hatch out, the workers provide the larvae with 
special food. Then, as usual, these queen cells are sealed 
up, while the larvae spin their cocoons. 

Now, since there is no danger that the old colony will 
be left without a queen, a large number of the workers 
are ready to leave the hive— or to ''swarm" — and seek a 
new home elsewhere, and in swarming they always take 
the old queen with them as mother of the new colony. 
In earlier" times, before the habits of bees were so well 
known, many colonies were lost in swarming time; but 
now the watchful bee-keeper is able to save the new colonies 
by providing hives for them at the proper time. 

In the meantime, in the course of a week after the swarm- 
ing has taken place, the new queens are ready to emerge 
from their cells. If the colony is still so large that it must 
swarm again, at least two of the queens are permitted to 
hatch; but if the colony is not too large, the first queen to 
emerge is permitted to tear open the cells and kill the 
other queens. 

When the new queen is from five to eight days old, she 
leaves her cell for what is known as her ''nuptial flight," 
when she mates with a drone. She then returns to the 
hive, and does not leave it again unless the colony swarms. 

Only one queen at a time is, as a rule, tolerated in a 
hive. If by chance a strange queen gets into a hive where 
there is already a queen, there will be a battle royal, re- 
sulting in the death of one. Mother and daughter may 
for a time get along quite peaceably, but never mother 
and daughter-in-law; and their subjects, the workers, 
apparently have something. to say about the matter also. 
In modern bee culture it sometimes happens that the 



382 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

queen die's. The bees set up a cry of distress. They 
are out of sorts with themselves and their owner. The 
prospects for the future are decidedly bad; the old bees 
begin to die off; and unless there is a queen to lay eggs 
and keep the young brood going, the colony itself will 
soon become extinct. Here the bee-keeper steps in and 
supplies a queen. He cannot let loose this stepmother 
into the hive, even though the inmates be ''cr3dng" for 
want of her. He must go through the preliminary proc- 
ess of ''introducing" her. This is done by shutting her 
up in a httle cage suppKed with soft candy. She is then 
placed between the combs for twenty-four or forty-eight 
hours, during which time she acquires the odor of the 
colony. She is no longer a stranger, and is released among 
the bees. If she be "accepted" by them, they begin to 
feed her by extending their tongues, offering her a drop 
of honey or nectar. Other bees will begin to comb her 
hair. They will stand around her in a circle three or four 
bees high, perhaps. At times they extend to her all the 
royal attention that a human queen might expect from 
her subjects. 

The work of the hive is divided between the young bees, 
or nurses, that do not go to the field, and the old bees, or 
''fielders," that gather nectar or pollen. In general the 
inside work — building of cells, care of the brood, and clean- 
ing of the hive — is done by bees that are less than seven- 
teen days old. To these young bees also falls the task of 
guarding the entrance of the hive against robbers. 

The average life of the worker bee in the height of the 
season is about six weeks. At the end of that time their 
wings may become so worn that they are no longer able 



A COLONY OF HONEY-BEES 3^3 

to work. Notwithstanding that they have toiled and 
spent their hfe-blood, the younger generation of bees 
coming on will, without the least spark of gratitude, push 
these old bees out of the hive, pick them up, fly out into 
the field with them, and drop them. The poor old bees 
cannot walk back— it is too far; and they cannot fly, and 
so they die. The merciless process is repeated generation 
after generation. It is another case of the survival of the 
fittest. All undesirables and the weak and infirm must 
be sacrificed for the good of the colony at large. Even 
the drone bees, after they have served the purpose of their 
creation, and after the close of the season, are ruthlessly 
pushed out of the hive by their sisters. They gather 
neither pollen nor nectar, so why save them? They, too, 
must be sacrificed, for winter is coming on, and only the 
essential must be allowed to survive. 

The statement has been made that the young bees guard 
the entrance— against what? Robber bees. Bees, like 
their owners, learn that they can steal from their neigh- 
bors. The ordinary honest bee will, perhaps, spend a 
whole day in the fields gathering a single load of nectar. 
This, of course, means hard work. If, however, the bee- 
man leaves any honey or syrup exposed, or if a certain 
colony is not very strong, when there is no honey in the 
fields these honest bees may become thieves. They will 
overpower a weak colony. They will steal the syrup or 
the honey, and in a short time there will be a general pow- 
wow of excitement. Every bee, anxious to store for its 
own hive, will pounce on these coveted sweets. It takes 
a robber bee less than a minute to fill up with honey, rush 
back to the hive, deposit its load, and then rush back with 



384 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

a lot of its fellows. The excitement grows apace. If the 
apiarist is not on hand to stop proceedings, the whole 
apiary will be involved. When the honey is gone, there 
is trouble. Becoming excited and angry because there is 
no more, they are liable to wreak their vengeance on cats, 
dogs, chickens, or on pedestrians and teamsters in the 
highway. The wise apiarist, if he comes upon the scene 
in time, will remove the hive, and if a weak colony is being 
overpowered, will carry it down cellar.- He may go even 
so far as to set a robber-trap. This device allows the 
bees to go into a hive that is set as a decoy, but permits 
none to get out. In half an hour he may catch all the 
robber bees, amounting to some thousands. After their 
wild excitement, he knows that he must shut them up for 
a day or two, or until they cool off. Or he may destroy 
them, for once a bee learns bad tricks it will keep them up. 
Fortunately, these robbing episodes are not frequent, 
but are here mentioned to caution the novice against 
leaving sweets exposed or allowing colonies in the apiary 
to become so weak that they will be overcome by their 
more powerful neighbors. 

E. R. Root (adapted). 



We thank Thee, Lord, for youth — 

Its sunny hours with song and gladness fraught, 
For May-tide dawns, for earth renewed with fiow'rs- 

Dear tokens of Thy tender care and thought ! 
In very truth, 
We bless Thee for the glowing spring of youth. 



THE SONG OF THE BEE 

Buzz ! buzz ! buzz ! 

This is the song of the bee. 
His legs are of yellow; 
A jolly, good fellow, 

And yet a great worker is he. 

In days that are sunny 
He's getting his honey; 
In days that are cloudy 

He's making his wax: 
On pinks and on lilies, 
And gay daffodiUies, 
And columbine blossoms, 

He levies a tax ! 

Buzz ! buzz ! buzz ! 
From morning's first light 
Till the coming of night, 
He's singing and toiling 

The summer day through. 
Oh ! we may get weary, 
And think work is dreary; 
'Tis harder by far 

To have nothing to do ! 

Marian Douglas. 



38s 



GETTING IN THE HAY 

It is an evening in the early part of July. Supper has 
been eaten, the cows have been milked, and Farmer Dan'els 
sits on his front stoop, slowly pufhng his stogy and looking 
out over his fine stretch of level meadows. His oldest 
boy, a sturdy, brown-skinned youth of sixteen, is stand- 
ing just within the doorway behind him. 

Farmer Dan'els takes the stogy from his Hps. "Larry," 
he says, with a quiet drawl, ''you'd better oil up the 
machines to-night. We'll cut to-morrow." 

Thus come the marching orders — the signal words that 
mark the halcyon days of the country summer, the Arca- 
dian period of the farmer's year. The sordid drudgery of 
the stable, the dreary monotony of the dairy, the barren 
burden of the plough — all are dissipated by the sweet ro- 
mance of getting in the hay. At any rate, so it has always 
seemed to me. Haying is work, hard work, hot work, but 
somehow it seems to be the kind of work that God ex- 
pected man to do. There is a purity, a freshness, a fra- 
grance about it that fairly sweeten the sweat drops on the 
toiler's brow. 

At five the next morning, then, all hands are stirring. 
At five-thirty the milking is over and the breakfast is 
under way. 

At six the two mowing-machines go jangling down the 
lane, each drawn by a burly team, one guided by Larry 
and the other by Farmer Dan'els, who bob up and down 
in their iron seats as the heavy wheels runible along the 

386 



GETTING IN THE HAY 387 

driveway. Crossing the public road, they turn into the 
meadow and fall into position, one behind the other, with 
the space of a dozen yards or so between. The gears are 
thrown in, the *'giddaps" ring out — and the tall timothy 
begins to fall. 

Down the meadow they go, straight as a chalk line; 
then across the lower edge, up the other side, back to the 
corner, and down again. The ''clink-clink-cHnk" of the 
cutting-bar sings as tunefully as a chorus of clarionets; 
and when they stop and back up, to turn the corners 
square, you hear the ratchets fall with a cHck-click, as if 
the orchestra had paused to tune up for the next passage. 

Gradually the meadow takes on the appearance of an 
immense emerald rug with a pale-green border formed by 
the fallen grass. 

A half hour passes. The sun climbs higher, and the air is 
heavy with the sweet odor of bruised grass and clover. 

Now, ratthng into the field, comes young Roland, whose 
nine years of being have quahfied him to drive the rake. 
It is always the oldest horse and the youngest boy who' 
do the raking. 

The teeth of the rake are held clear of the ground, as a 
lady holds her petticoats, while he drives across the lot 
to the patch cut yesterday, which in the interim has 
changed from grass to hay. Swinging into place close to 
the fence, he releases the lever; the long, arched teeth fall 
into the hay, and with a chirp to old Frank he is off, the 
straddling wheels trundhng over the stubble and looking 
for all the world like a great daddy-long-legs. A careless 
kick with his bare right foot every three rods or so dumps 
the rake and leaves the hay in windrows that steadily 



388 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

lengthen as he doubles back and forth across the meadow. 
How simple it appears — this raking. But if you have ever 
tried, you know that it takes a practised hand to drive a 
horse straight in an open field, and a trained eye to keep 
the hne of windrows true. Hats off to you, Roland ! I 
was nearly twice your age when I essayed the task, and a 
sorry mess I made of it. 

The hay-cock is not as common as it used to be. But 
this morning the hay has dried quickly, and, as there is 
a pair of hands to spare. Ransom, the second son, aged 
fourteen, but with a man's breadth of chest, comes on the 
scene, a pitchfork over his shoulder. Deftly he breaks 
the windrow into sections and with two heaves of the fork 
turns each section into a round-topped pile. His arms 
are bared to the shoulder, and it is good to watch the 
tawny skin. 

So the work goes on, the mowers, with their double 
equipment, rapidly increasing their lead, until the green 
rug is all border save a narrow strip down the middle; 
and this is wiped out just as the sound of a bell announces 
noon and dinner. A welcome note — that bell — in haying- 
time ! The sun shines hot in the hay-field, hotter than in 
any place I know of or hope to visit; but it never turns 
the edge of the toiler's appetite. Even I, lying lazily in 
the fence corner, have been made ravenous, just from 
looking on. 

Briskly, then, we troop off the field — horses, machines, 
and men. The machines are dropped in the shadow of 
the barn, the horses are driven in to their oats and hay, 
while the men take a drink at the well and a wash in the 
wood shed. Then we go stamping into the cool dining- 



GETTING IN THE HAY 389 

room, with its blue-painted floor, and take our seats at 
the table. 

Farmer Dan'els's wife lifts the cover of a large tureen. 

''What's this?" I say. "Chickens in haying- time ? " 
A pair of pullets in July is an extravagance unheard of 
on the kind of farm I've known. 

"You can thank Larry for it,'' says Farmer Dan'els's 
wife, with a smile of reproval toward her eldest. "He 
ran 'em down with the milk wagon this morning. And 
they was jes' ready to lay!" 

Larry, you rascal, there is something in your eyes as 
you set your teeth in a tender wing, that makes me ques- 
tion whether the fricassee is purely an accident, after all. 

And such a fricassee! And such lettuce, so crisp and 
green and succulent ! And brittle yellow beans with the 
taste of the garden in them; and a big pitcher of rich, 
creamy milk; and bread that Farmer Dan'els's wife takes 
pride in baking every Tuesday and Saturday. And for 
dessert a blueberry pie. What a blueberry pie it is, with 
the berries an inch deep and the crust so thin that I won- 
der how it holds itself together. There's many a city 
magnate, I'll wager, who would pay Farmer Dan'els's wife 
a fabulous salary just for her blueberry pies, if only they 
could find her out. But they'll never know through me, 
I can tell you. It wouldn't be fair to Farmer Dan'els 
and the boys. 

After dinner there is a few minutes' rest on the shady 
porch, during which Farmer Dan'els smokes a corn-cob 
pipe and issues the orders for the afternoon. 

"Roland," he says to the youngster— and there's a 
note of tenderness in this— "you better stick around the 



3 go COUNTRY LIFE READER 

house a while till it gets cooler. You did pretty well this 
mornin'. Ransom, you hook up Jim an' Nell to the 
mower an' start on the east meadow. Larry, if you'll 
hitch Joe and the sorrel to the wagon, we'll get in some o' 
that hay." 

Five minutes later. Ransom comes clattering down from 
the barn and goes off toward the east meadow. Behind 
him comes Larry with the wagon, a low-wheeled affair 
with a broad, fiat rack, and a pole standing up at either 
end like the masts of a schooner. 

"Wait a moment," I say. Running to the barn, I am 
back directly with a pitchfork under my arm. 

Farmer Dan'els smiles whimsically. " Goin' to give us 
a hand?" he asks. 

I grin, and we clamber aboard; and we ride out to the 
field, our legs danghng over the side. 

Outwardly I am calm and confident; inwardly I am 
wondering if I will last till the load is on. I refuse to be 
classed as a novice, for as a boy I had my trial at it. But 
that was twenty years ago. 

We start at the near end of the field. Farmer Dan'els 
and I at either side, pitching on, and Larry atop the 
wagon, building the load. It is quite a moment for me. 
I am strong enough, bigger than Farmer Dan'els, and hard 
as nails. But have I lost the knack of getting under the 
fork ? For that's the secret of pitching hay. 

''Don't lift it like a spoon," they used to tell me; ''git 
under it an' h'ist!" 

At the first stop. Farmer Dan'els has all of his aboard 
while I am picking the top off mine. Larry, observant 
and tactful, dalHes with his fork and fumbles the reins 



GETTING IN THE HAY 



391 



before driving on to the next windrow. This gives me a 
new start, and at the second stack I do much better. At 
the third, I begin to get my stride. Up the field we go and 
down again, and how I rejoice to see that I am keeping 




I rejoice to see that I am keeping squarely up with the wagon. 



squarely up with the wagon, sweating much more than 
Farmer Dan'els, I admit, but working as fast anyhow. 

Every forkful makes the Hft higher now, but that doesn't 
trouble me, for I've recalled the trick of it — I am '^ getting 
under my fork." 

Presently the word goes out: ''We'll call that a load!" 

And we start for the barn. Ransom, knee-deep in the 

hay, driving the team, and Farmer Dan'els and I striding 

along beside the load, dragging our forks behind us. A 

proud and happy man am I as we walk in, particularly 



392 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

when Farmer Dan'els puts his honest hand on my shoulder 
and says: 

*'Well done, boy; I didn't think it was in you." 

We halt in front of the steel-roofed barn. Larry clam- 
bers into the mow, and Farmer Dan'els mounts the load. 
Suspended from the top of the loft door is the hay-fork, 
looking like an immense U upside down. The rope that 
holds it passes along the top of the loft to the rear end, 
through a pulley, and then down, and out at a side door, 
where stands young Roland with old Frank, ready to hook 
on and furnish the power; one-horse power, literally, 
with Roland as the engineer. 

Now Farmer Dan'els plunges the fork deep into the 
hay, snaps the points together, and shouts the word to 
go. Roland passes the word to old Frank, emphasizing 
it with a slap of the reins; the horse canters forward and 
away goes the entire top of the load, squeezing in through 
the door and flying straight through the loft to the back 
of the mow. 

Larry, steaming in a temperature of 102 degrees, packs 
it snugly away. The fork returns to the door, while old 
Frank is being turned around and driven back for an- 
other haul. With four or five more Kf ts we clear the wagon, 
and then all hands clamber on the rack and rumble down 
the lane and into the field for another load. 

Some time in the middle of the afternoon, the farmer's 
daughter comes into the field with a tin dipper and a pail 
of water drawn from a well that goes down twenty-five 
feet through solid rock. Clear as crystal it is, and so cold 
one would think it had been iced. What a draught for a 
toiler in the sun ! 



GETTING IN THE HAY 393 

The mowing is now so well in advance that the ma- 
chine is brought in, and Ransom's team is hooked up to 
another wagon. Then he and I work with one team, while 
Farmer Dan'els and Larry continue with the other. Be- 
fore we know it, there is a good-natured contest on be- 
tween the two outfits. Work as we can, they beat us, 
but only by a nose — or a forkful, to be more literal — and 
as Farmer Dan'els drives his rack over the hilltop, another 
good load follows close behind. 

"Four big tons!" declares Farmer Dan'els, as we swing 
the last lift of the two cargoes into the yawning door. 
''It's a fine finish of a good day's work." 

The forks are stacked in a corner of the barn, the horses 
are watered and fed, and we file in to a wonderful supper 
of crisp-fried salt pork, boiled potatoes, and cream gravy, 
topped off with hot biscuits and clover honey as yellow 
as new gold. 

After supper the milking has to be done, everybody 
giving a hand except the daughter of the house, who stays 
within to clear the table and put the kitchen straight; 
and after the milking the boys and I scurry across the 
pasture and over the ledge, wriggle out of our clothes, and 
plunge into the waters of the Saint Lawrence. Was ever 
a swim so bhssful? None but a toiler in hay-time can 
know the joy of that river's cool caress. 

Leaving the younger bloods splashing about like sea- 
lions, I shake myself dry, dress, and return to the house, 
to find Farmer Dan'els sitting on the porch, smoking 
leisurely, his eyes toward the west, where the sun, looking 
for all the world like a big red balloon, is sinking below 
the sky line. 



394 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

Farmer Dan'els points to it with the stem of his corn- 
cob. ''Another good day to-morrow," he says. 

''What if it rains?" I ask. "There's a good bit of hay 
out there, cut, that we didn't get in." 

"It won't rain," he answers with gentle conviction. 

"How do you know?" I ask him. 

"It never does after a sunset Kke that — an' I've been 
watchin' em for thirty year. Besides, there was a warm 
moon last night. If this kind o' weather holds out, we'll 
have the job all done in a couple o' weeks." 

I sniff the air. Oh, how sweet ! The sun, all day distill- 
ing the essence of clover and hay and field flowers, has gone 
down, and the fragrance of fresh and growing things, the 
fragrance of hay-time, is borne to us on the cool air of the 
evening. 

"It smells good," I say. 

"Yes, it does." He draws in a deep breath of it. 

In the waning light I see upon Farmer Dan'els's furrowed 
face a faint smile, a smile of quiet, simple, perfect content. 

There is a long, restful silence. Farmer Dan'els speaks 
softly, as if he would not disturb it. "It's hard work, 
hayin' is," he says, "but, do you know, I — I kind o' like it ! " 

The boys come straggling up from the river and go 
into the house. As they pass us on the veranda, one of 
them calls back over his shoulder: 

"Good night, father; we're going to bed." 

The old cherry-wood clock in the sitting-room strikes nine. 

"Well, wefl!" says Farmer Dan'els, rising, "guess I'll 
be goin', too." 

That's how they get in the hay. 

Carl Werner. 



HARVEST TIME 

Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain, 
Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain, 
Wearied of pleasuring weeks away. 
Summer is lying asleep to-day. 

Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briers. 
And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires : 
Yellow her hair as the goldenrod, 
And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod. 

Purple her eyes as the mists that dream 

At the edge of some laggard, sun-drowned stream; 

But over their depths the lashes sweep. 

For summer is lying to-day asleep. 

The north wind kisses her rosy mouth. 
His rival frowns in the far-off south. 
And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek. 
And summer wakes for one short week. 

Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain. 
Then sleeps and dreams for a year again. 

E. Pauline Johnson. 



395 



THE OLD PASTURE-FIELD 

When I was a boy, the most attractive place to me on 
the old home farm was the pasture-field. It was a rambling 
old field with a fringe of woods on one side and a good- 
sized creek flowing across the corner into the woods. This 
creek, my father used to say, just about doubled the value 
of his farm; but as a boy I cared little about its usefulness 
in providing a drinking-place for the sheep and cattle. 
To me it was a river of enchantment, where minnows 
sunned themselves on golden sands, where wonderful 
speckled trout lurked under the twisted roots of over- 
hanging trees; where '^ skaters" and water-bugs danced 
in magic circles in the darker shadows; where the cattle 
drowsed, knee-deep, in the hot August afternoons; and 
where we boys used to gather, in the long summer evenings, 
to make our first trials at swimming in " the old swimming- 
hole" at the bend of the stream. 

''I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 
I make the netted sunbeams dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go 

But I go on for ever." 
396 



398 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

As a boy, it was always my work to go down to the pas- 
ture to bring up the cows. I usually walked, for then I 
could try the tussocks of grass for meadow-larks' nests, 
or watch for woodchucks, which generally came out morn- 
ing and evening to feed; or perhaps even give chase to a 
venturesome red squirrel steahng along the old rail fence 
from the barn to the woods. But when the ground was 
wet, it was better fun to straddle old Black Bess and ride 
down the lane at half-amble, half-gallop, even if we did 
have to stop at the bars to clear the way for the cattle to 
come and go. And oh ! the simple loveliness of those 
glorious spring mornings, when the cool, clear air seemed 
new-washed by the night dews, and sunlight and air to- 
gether set my blood tingling and dancing in my veins, so 
that I was ready to leap and shout for very joy. 

^'The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn; 
Morning's at seven, 
The hillside's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing, 
The snail's on the thorn; 
God's in his heaven, 
All's right with the world." 

There are no fence corners in the old pasture now, for 
the farmer of to-day objects to the waste of ground and 
objects to the weeds; but to the boys on the farm in the 
old days the corners in the old ''snake" fence were store- 
houses of treasure. It was here that the blackberries 
grew that were ''red when they were green"; and our 



THE OLD PASTURE-FIELD 



399 



hands and lips alike were stained with the elderberries 
that nodded in tempting purple clusters over the fence. 
Here the aster and goldenrod mingled in gay profusion; 
the tangled undergrowth beneath formed a refuge for the 
timid wood-hare; at one point, where the grass and weeds 




Here a hawthorn bush with a tangle of grape-vines. 



formed a natural shelter, the woodchuck threw up a mound 
of fresh sand from his doorway; and in and out among 
weeds and moss-covered rails in spring and fall were heard 
the lispings and twitterings of migrating flocks of birds. 

In the field itself there was not a shrub or a stone or 
scarcely even a weed with which I was not familiar, as 
with an old friend. Here in this clump of grass was a 
graybird's nest; here a hawthorn bush with a tangle of 
grape-vines haunted by cat-birds and thrashers; here was 
a rougher corner of the pasture, where the killdeer flut- 



400 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

tered and trailed a broken wing to draw me away from 
its nest; and here on the higher ridge a clump of red su- 
macs glowed in a gorgeous blaze of color in the autumn 
sunlight. There are no dandelions in the field now; they 
have been sprayed and cultivated out of existence; but 
in the old pasture in early May the ground was a carpet 
of glorious yellow. 

"Dear common flower that growest beside the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
Which children pluck and in their pride uphold. 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'er joyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found 
Which not the rich earth's ample round 
May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer blooms may be." 

The modern farmer does not believe in a fLxed pasture- 
field, and the old field has been ploughed up and seeded 
a dozen times since then; and other fields are used for pas- 
ture while it is having a ''rest." But in my boyhood days 
the field by the creek was one place on the farm that re- 
mained unchanged. The old days with the old delights 
of boyhood can never return; but I can still see the rail 
fence and the path which led to the creek, and the old 
elm with the cattle crowded together in its shade; I can 
still recall the fresh earthy odors of spring and hear the 
call of the bird and the soft rippHng of the waters of the 
stream, and up the long lane through the gathering 
twilight can see the procession of cattle moving slowly 
home. 



THE OLD PASTURE-FIELD 



401 



With klingle, klangle, klingle, 
Far down the dusky dingle, 
The cows are coming home; 
Now sweet and clear, and faint and low. 
The airy tinklings come and go. 
Like chimings from some far-off tower. 
Or patterings of an April shower 
That makes the daisies grow — 
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglehngle. 
Far down the darkening dingle 
The cows come slowly home." 




A BIRD'S ELEGY 

He was the first to welcome spring; 

Adventurous he came 
To wake the dreaming buds and sing 

The crocus into flame. 

He loved the morning and the dew; 

He loved the sun and rain; 
He fashioned lyrics as he flew, 

With love for their refrain. 

Poet of vines and blossoms, he; 

Beloved of them all; 
The timid leaves upon the tree 

Grew bold at his glad call. 

He sang the rapture of the hills. 

And from the starry height 
He brought the melody that fills 

The meadows with delight. 

And now behold him dead, alas ! 

Where he made joy so long: 
A bit of blue amid the grass — 

A tiny, broken song. 

Frank Dempster Sherman. 



402 



THE POOR MAN'S FARM 

/ returned and saw under the sun that the race is not to 
the swift nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the 
wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor 
to men of skill— hut time and chance happeneth to them all 
Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better than that 
a man should rejoice in his own works . . . to eat and drink 
and enjoy the good of all his labor that he taketh under the 
sun, all the days of his life which God giveth him; for it is his 
portion, . . . this is the gift of Cod. 

The gift of God: that is what I often think a country 
Hfe really is. And this is the kind of success that farming 
offers to a man of small means: to work hard, but to be 
his own master, with such days of leisure and recreation 
as, in his own judgment, it is wise to take; not to accumu- 
late a fortune, perhaps, but to have always enough for his 
wants; to live upon the fat of the land, and ''to enjoy the 
good of all his labor all the days of his Hfe," as in no 
other calling. 

All this fulness of Hfe is possible to any man who brings 
to agriculture a strong and wilHng mind and body, and 
sane, wholesome views of Hving— provided always that 
he has learned the business and has enough capital to 
gain some Httle foothold. 

A picture comes to my mind of a country home that I 
once knew weH, and where I was a frequent guest. It 
belonged to a friend, a man much older than myself, who 
had possessed large means and had always Hved the Hfe 

403 



404 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

of a man of leisure. He had a large family of children, 
most of them girls. Among other things that he pos- 
sessed was a small farm, and in an evil hour — or possibly 
a good one — practically everything he had was swept away 
except this farm, and he was obliged to move upon it and 
get his living as a farmer. 

The farm was near my own, and I saw much of the 
children. They were all of them, girls as well as boys, 
constantly out-of-doors. They knew all about sledding, 
skating, ice-boating; they became expert in rowing and 
swimming; and they rode horseback, although they had 
nothing but farm horses for the purpose. They had all 
kinds of pets and were always raising dogs, pigeons, or 
poultry — and incidentally it may be said that they bred 
some very fine ones. 

Their father had brought from his city home a fine 
library, and he also subscribed to a goodly number of 
magazines and periodicals; and his family, though really 
poorer than most of their neighbors, had plenty of time 
for reading. The old-fashioned ''great south room" of 
the farmhouse served as parlor, library, and living- 
room, all in one; and its careless prolusion of books, 
music, and chairs that were comfortable to sit in, would 
probably have shocked the tidy housewives of the neigh- 
borhood, whose ''best furniture" was arranged with 
mathematical precision, and whose parlors were rarely 
opened except for a funeral or the minister's tea-drinking. 
In winter there was generally a wood fire in the fireplace, 
which added to the impression of comfort and cheer. 

This man never became an expert farmer, though in 
some things — fruit-growing and gardening— he excelled; 



THE POOR MAN'S FARM 405 

but what is much more to our purpose, he made a good 
Hving and he had considerable leisure. I often sat at his 
table, and though everything was very simple — for he 
could not afford a servant — the food was of the best and, 
as a rule, almost everything was produced on the farm. 
I recently dined with one of his daughters, now a woman 
grown and in easy circumstances, and she said as we en- 
tered the dining-room: "I can't give you such a dinner 
as we used to have at the old farm, for we can't get such 
things in the market at any price; they don't have them." 
Let me give you another example. Not far from my 
early home is a young man who, after graduating from 
college and working for some years as a salaried man in 
the city, decided to try his hand on a small and much- 
neglected farm that was left him by his father. The young 
man was married and had two children, and it took several 
years of uncomfortable pinching economy to get together 
enough money to stock and equip the place. Now, after 
five years of farming, he expresses himself as more than 
satisfied with the change. ''I don't handle as much money 
as I did in town," he said to me lately, "but I get fully 
twice as much, in one way and another, for my labor, 
and I have more time to myself." 

David Buffum. 



The experience of all mankind declares that a race of 
men, sound in soul and limb, can be bred and reared only 
in the exercise of plough and spade in the free air, with 
country enjoyment and amusements — never amidst foul 
drains and smoke-blacks and the eternal clank of machinery. 

Froude. 




NATURE AND THE CHILD 

For many blessings I to God upraise 

A thankful heart; the life He gives is fair 

And sweet and good, since He is everywhere, 
Still with me even in the darkest ways. 

But most I thank Him for my earliest days 

With flocks and birds and flowers, free from all care, 

And glad as brook that through a meadow strays. 
O balmy air, O orchards white with bloom, 

waving fields of ever-varying green, 

O deep, mysterious woods, whose leafy gloom 

Invites to pensive dreams of worlds unseen. 
No power from you my heart can ever wean. 

John Lancaster Spalding. 
406 




A tempting road. 



THE ROADSIDE IN JULY 

The flowers that grow along the side of the road in mid- 
summer may not be so dainty and delicate as those which 
we find in the fields and woods, but in many ways they 
are equally interesting; and if you examine them after 
the dust has been scoured off by a good thunder-shower, 
you will find that they are not, after all, without a con- 
siderable beauty of their own. 

All plants, as we know, have a struggle to live, and 
most of them have adapted themselves so as to encourage 
their friends and discourage their enemies. But perhaps 
the flowers of the roadsides and open fields have a greater 
struggle than the rest; for with cows and sheep, horses, 
rabbits, etc., all looking for the best things to eat, they 

407 



4o8 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

are in danger of being eaten up before they have a chance 
to come to flower. And so they have, in most cases, armed 
themselves in such a way as to make it decidedly un- 
pleasant for any animal that attempts to make a meal of 
them. The thistle has covered itself with a multitude of 
needles; the mullein wears a coat of flannel which is dry 
eating; the burdock is bitter and unpleasant to the taste; 
and the nettle is armed with a myriad Kttle stings. The 
result is that they are generally left severely alone, except 
when the pubUc welfare demands that they be exterminated 
by means of the scythe or the hoe. 

The thistle is wise, too, in other respects. Its blossoms, 
taken singly, are so small and insignificant that they would 
not attract the bees, and so they have formed a ^'combine"; 
and a single thistle head is in reality made up of hundreds 
of thistle flowers grouped together in one. Then the 
thistle throws her house open and makes her invitation 
to the insects general, except, of course, to the ants. But 
of all the insects the bee is, as usual, the favorite. 

If you stop to consider it, you will find that not many 
flowers have been honored like this rough, prickly, road- 
side thistle. In the first place, a great nation, hardy and 
rough in the exterior, but gentle at heart like the thistle, 
has taken it for an emblem. Tradition says that, in the 
time of Alfred the Great, the Danes were once making a 
midnight attack on a sleeping village in Scotland, when 
one of the Danish soldiers trod on a thistle, and raised 
such a cry of pain that the Scotch were warned of the 
enemy's approach. Thereafter, in gratitude for their de- 
liverance, the Scotch made the thistle their national em- 
blem. 



THE ROADSIDE IN JULY 



409 



Nettles are quite different from thistles in many ways. 
In the first place they have very insignificant flowers; for 
the pollen is carried from flower to flower by the wind, 
and they have no need, therefore, to put on bright colors 
to attract the bees. Their ''sting," too, is quite different 




The nettle. 



Blue vervain. 



Butter and eggs. 



from that of the thistle. They are covered w^ith little 
prickles, at the root of each of which is a small sac filled 
with formic acid, the same kind of poison that the bees 
and the ants use in their sting. When the fine needle- 
point of a nettle breaks off in your finger, the formic acid 
presses into the wound and irritates it. Soda or ammonia, 
however, wifl counteract its effect, to some extent at 
least. 

Nearly every one knows the chicory when he sees it, 
and certainly every one has heard of it, for the roots are 
sometimes ground up and mixed with coffee, to adulterate 



4IO COUNTRY LIFE READER 

it; and a good many people use the leaves in making 
salad. But on a hot, midsummer day the flowers are more 
attractive than the leaves and root. What feelings of 
surprise and pleasure it gives you to find its dehcate blue 
flower cups by the dusty roadside or in the waste places 
along the side of the village street. 

''Oh, not in ladies' gardens, 
My peasant posy ! 
Smile thy dear blue eyes, 
Nor only — nearer to the skies — 

In upland pastures, dim and sweet, 
But by the dusty road 

Where tired feet 
Toil to and fro, 
Where flaunting Sin 

May see thy heavenly hue. 
Or weary Sorrow look from thee 

Toward a more tender blue." 

Two other blue flowers that are found abundantly along 
the roadsides in midsummer are the blue vervain, and 
the self-heal. Both of these were used in olden times for 
medicines. The blue vervain, or verbena, was called the 
''simpler's joy," because the simpler, or herb doctor, made 
use of it so frequently; and the self-heal, as its name in- 
dicates, was used in healing wounds. The vervain grows 
tall, sometimes even to the height of six feet, and is known 
by its steeple-shaped flower head. The self-heal, on the 
other hand, grows close to the ground, seldom more than 
a few inches in height. It belongs to the mint family and 



THE ROADSIDE IN JULY 



411 



may be known by the square stem and two-lipped flower, 
which are characteristic of all the mints. 

Butter-and-eggs, or yellow toadflax, is a flower that is 
too well known to all boys and girls to need any descrip- 
tion. Indeed, so common is it that we are apt to overlook 




Mullein. 



Tliistles. 



the beauty of its pretty yellow and orange flowers and 
to consider it something of a dangerous pest. But, after 
all, it generally grows on waste ground that is fit for little 
else and confines itself to small colonies, instead of spread- 
ing singly over the roadsides and fields. 

But we must not leave the butter-and-eggs without 
noticing the ingenious contrivance which it makes use of 
for excluding all the smaller insects from its flowers. Ex- 
amine it, and you will see that the two orange-colored 
lips of the flower are tightly closed, so that ants and other 
small insects cannot force an entrance. But when the 



412 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

honey-bee lights on the flower, her weight pulls the lower 
lip down and reveals the stamens and pistils within, with 
the honey-sac at the bottom of the spur beyond. 



CONSIDER THE LILIES 

Flowers preach to us if we will hear: — 

The rose saith in the dewy morn: 

I am most fair; 

Yet all my loveliness is born 

Upon a thorn. 

The poppy saith amid the corn: 

Let but my scarlet head appear 

And I am held in scorn; 

Yet juice of subtle virtue lies 

Within my cup of curious dyes. 

The lilies say: Behold how we 

Preach without words of purity. 

The violets whisper from the shade 

Which their own leaves have made: 

Men scent our fragrance on the air, 

Yet take no heed 

Of humble lessons we could read. 

But not alone the fairest flowers: 

The merest grass 

Along the roadside where we pass, 

Lichen and moss and sturdy weed. 

Tell of His love who sends the dew. 

The rain and sunshine too. 

To nourish one smafl seed. 

Christina Rossetti. 




Ploughing the "back fifty 



THE OFFICE OR THE FARM 



Dear Frank: 

Your letter, asking me to look out for a position for you 
here in the city, has caused me a great deal of thinking. 
I am sorry that you wish to leave the farm to enter busi- 
ness hfe. Here are some of my reasons: 

In the first place, you have a particular sort of knowl- 
edge that is of more use to you on the farm than it can be 
anywhere else. You have learned to plough a straight 
furrow, to use an axe and a saw, to milk a cow, and to do 
a score of other things requiring skill. City men who take 
to farming often fail for lack of just such skill. They have 
to begin as apprentices at work which you, at sixteen, 
have learned to do with ease. This farm training is your 
capital. If you enter an ofhce you make no use of it; the 
best place to invest it is on the farm. 



413 



414 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

You think you are wasting your business ability in 
farming. Surely you are not serious when you say that ! 
If a man is to be a successful farmer he must be a business 
man ! He must know the cost of what he produces, must 
try to increase the amount, and to market his goods to 
the best possible advantage. And don't you see that be- 
cause his "goods" are living, growing animals and plants, 
requiring attention of the right sort, at the right time, in 
the right way, he must be able to think just as clearly and 
keenly and to act as promptly as a man in any other hne 
of business? The merchant ''takes stock" at the end of 
the year and finds out whether it pays to deal in certain 
lines of goods, whether the people he employs are worth 
what they cost him, whether he may take the risk of en- 
larging his business. That is exactly what the good farmer 
does. He ''takes stock" and finds out whether it pays 
him to grow certain crops, whether he is employing either 
animals or men who are not worth their cost, whether he 
may risk adding to his machinery or buying more land. 
Your business abihty going to waste on the farm! Why, 
boy, it is just the place for you to prove whether or not 
you have any ! 

Then, too, every other power of your miind can be active 
on the farm. There is no interest in the handHng of sugar 
and tea, or in the buying and selling of stocks and bonds, 
that can equal the interest to be found in farming — if you 
know how to look for it. There is the soil to be studied. 
Do you know how to find out what fertihzer it requires? 
Can you decide from the lay of your land what drainage it 
needs? Do you know if the rotation of crops used on 
your father's farm is the best possible ? There is a whole 



THE OFFICE OR THE FARM 415 

world of interest in the trees and shrubs, the weeds, the 
insects, and the birds — in their relation to your work. 
Farm animals in themselves offer a subject for interesting 
study, and farm machinery gives you a chance to use any 
mechanical gift you may have. 

You say you have a better chance to become rich in 
the city than you have on the farm. Have you ever stopped 
to think that for every man who makes a huge fortune 
in the city, there are hundreds who struggle along with 
barely a living ? If on the farm there is not so much chance 
of becoming a millionaire as in the city, neither is there so 
much danger of poverty. When you are comparing the 
farmer's income with city salaries, are you taking every- 
thing into account ? Do not forget that for his labor the 
farmer uses his house free of rent and uses farm produce 
which has a cash value. Then remember that the farmer is 
improving his own property all the time. Look into the 
question more fully, Frank, and you will not be so sure 
that the city man has all the advantage over the farmer 
in respect to money reward for his labor. 

But, even if it were true that country Kfe does not 
*'pay" as highly in dollars and cents as city Hfe, there is 
another side to the question. What about the man's own 
life? In which of the two, city or country, does he have 
the better chance to develop his body and soul into the 
best sort of manhood? Let my forty years of city life 
speak on that point. Strongly I say it, Frank — stay in the 
country ! Listen to what I hear this afternoon as I sit in 
my ofhce. The shriek of trolley-cars, the rumble of heavy 
trucks over the paved streets, the din of motor-horns, the 
shrill cry of newsboys, the rival strains from several hand- 



4i6 



COUNTRY LIFE READER 



organs, are all mingled into a discordant roar that weakens 
the strongest nerves. I walk to my window and throw it 
up higher. All I can see is row upon row of windows in 
the huge office building opposite. With great straining of 




Field after field slopes before him to the river valley below. 



neck I may catch a glimpse of what I know must be sky, 
through the layers of smoke above my head. But the 
dust chokes me, and my telephone rings insistently. So 
I return to my desk. I close my eyes and see your father. 
He is in what we boys used to call the "back fifty." He 
draws in deep breaths of the clean, sweet air as furrow 
after furrow falls away from his plough. At a turn where 



THE OFFICE OR THE FARM 417 

he stops to rest the horses, he listens to a song-sparrow 
on the fence. He hears the soft roll of the mail-cart's 
wheels and looks up. What a sight for a tired man's eyes! 
Field after field slopes before him to the river valley be- 
low. That strip of woods to the left — the maple bor- 
dered side road — the wide stretch of clear, open sky over 
all! ''Get up, Jess!" There he goes, back to his work, 
off down the field with new vigor. Oh! Frank, can't I 
make you see the difference? This morning I completed 
a big *'deal." It may result in a larger bank account for 
me, or it may bring me only vexation, with days and 
nights full of anxiety. This morning your father prepared 
part of the *'back fifty" for seeding. He will watch the 
seed spring up to a harvest that will gladden him and be 
of real value in supplying the needs of men. The world 
cannot do without his work; it would be better off without 
mine! 

The city has grown hateful to me because I know it as 
you do not. We pay too high a price for what it gives us. 
Some of us cannot escape from it; we must stay and face 
its problems. But you are free to choose. Don't be fooKsh, 
Frank ! Stay where your body can grow in clean, health- 
ful surroundings, where you can work at what is in itself 
worth doing, where your mind and body can escape the 
cramping mine has struggled against all these years. Stay 
where you can combine honest hand labor with thought — 
and live your own life. 

One word more. If you should make up your mind to 
become a farmer — prepare. Read, think, and study hard. 
The boy who sets out to be a farmer ought to prepare him- 
self just as definitely for his work as the boy who wishes 



4i8 COUNTRY LIFE READER 

to be a doctor or a minister. After your high school course, 
go to an agricultural college and try to become the very 
best farmer possible. 

This is the longest letter I have written in many years — 
yet I could say much more on this subject. But I shall 
leave it with you. 

Think it all over again, and write very soon to, 
Your affectionate 

Uncle Bob. 

M. B. Stevenson. 



GOOD NIGHT 

Good night! Good night! 
Far flies the hght. 
But still God's love 
Shall flame above, 
Making all bright. 
Good night! Good night! 

Victor Hugo. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



000577420'^ ^=3 




